Hahnu Do Keizal
by Toasted Panic
Summary: Before he was called Erik the Slayer, there was a name that scorched all tongues, and as the long dead gods of the sky soared once again, so too did the legend: Dovahkiin. Young eyes set their gaze on the eastern roads of Skyrim. Waiting, watching the sky where it touched the edge of the world, hoping to lay eyes upon the prophesied hero. Fate would unite them. Erik/Dovahkiin
1. Prologue: Aan Kiini Hahnu

_Writer's Notes: Erik/Dragonborn is the main pairing, focusing more on Erik's point of view. The story loosely follows Skyrim's Main Quest in the first arc, concluding in a second arc with the end of the Civil War. _

* * *

_Hahnu Do Keizal_

by Toasted Panic

_Prologue _

_Aan Kiini Hahnu _

_(A Child's Dream)_

Erik learned of Whiterun from one of the soldiers who patrolled Rorikstead. It seemed entirely by accident—when the tall, brawny man grabbed Erik by the scruff of his neck, stopping him from wandering into a giant's territory. He grunted to himself, "By Talos, no lads back home were as thick-headed as you, boy." This momentarily made Erik forget his game of soldier patrol. Looking up with raised brows at the man whose face was covered by a shiny steel helmet, Erik couldn't resist asking, "Lads back home? _Where_ do you live?"

The soldier seemed to glare and grunted as he pushed Erik towards the village, "The capital city of this hold—Whiterun, out east. Didn't your father teach you these things? Run along and stay out of trouble."

It never occurred to Erik that the soldiers had homes like him and his father and the other village people—they always just seemed to wander about—let alone that they had homes in other places. He'd always just admired them for the way their regal garbs and spears and shields seemed to shine, even in the winter sun. Erik often pretended that he was one of them, making a game of their routine patrols, mimicking the way the soldiers made marching look so important.

Before Erik could ask him more questions, the soldier turned on his heel and resumed his duties. The words "capital city" rang tinkling bells of curiosity. Erik felt his chest swell with exhilaration, keeping him from standing still. There was only one place to have his questions answered.

He galloped like an excited colt, up the hill towards Frostfruit Inn. Barging through the wooden door, Erik spotted his weary father behind the counter, polishing flagons. Mralki glanced up at the intrusion and heaved a sigh when he saw his son bolt towards him.

"Have you done your chores yet? Erik, it's been hours since I told—"

"Father! Father! Do you know about the capital city? Do you know about Whiterun? One of the guards told me he was _from_ there, but I've never _seen_ a place like that. So I thought I'd ask you—have you been there? Are all soldiers from there?"

Taken aback, Mralki did nothing but stare at his young boy for a moment before shaking his head and setting down the rag and flagon he had in hand. "Slow down, Erik. One question at a time. What's all this talk about soldiers and Whiterun?"

"I was playing outside by the road, and one of the soldiers told me he's from the capital city—Whiterun—but what _is_ that?"

Surveying the quiet inn to see that it was empty, Mralki gently took his son by the shoulder and set him down at a table. Sitting next to Erik, his father's tired eyes looked older and more wrinkled in the firelight. For a moment, the walls were filled only with the crackling of the firewood.

Then Mralki began his tale of Skyrim, of the nine holds, of their capital city, Whiterun, of the jarls and the castles they resided in, towers jutting into the wide sky, roofs taller than their inn.

Erik found it best to ask his father more about Whiterun every night before bed. Mralki obliged him, each time telling his son a different story about the city. He spoke of the temple of Kynareth and how its shrines miraculously cured you of sickness and wounds; the great and oldest hall of Jorrvaskr, where the brave Companions resided; of Gildergreen, the once beautiful tree that stood in the Wind District; of the surrounding farms and breweries beyond the walls, where their mead and ale came from.

With each new day Erik became more and more enthralled. He dreamed of walking through the cobbled streets of Whiterun, looking up at the castle that towered over all the rest of the city.

Only then did Erik become curious of the strangers who stayed in their inn. He never bothered with them before—they never seemed as important as the soldiers who marched about in their gleaming armour. Now he wondered where in Skyrim they had travelled. Where did they go home to? Were they inn keeps, merchants, smiths like the city folk his father talked about?

Erik asked them when he could, as he was helping around the inn. Most of the travellers didn't seem to mind. He then found out about the worlds beyond Skyrim. Possibilities, each more endless and exciting than the last.

Once, he was gifted with a large leather map by a traveller who had dark brown skin and black hair, darker than any Erik had ever seen on a Nord. His name was Aristide, and he was an Imperial Courier. When Erik asked Aristide what that meant, he explained that he delivered very important messages and packages all over Tamriel.

"So you get to see all these places?" Erik gasped, gesturing to the map open on the inn table.

Aristide nodded with a smile, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "That's all I ever get to do. As wonderful as it is though, sometimes I'd rather settle in a quiet village like this, with a nice lady and my own bed to come home to."

Erik missed Aristide's wistful look and scowled, smacking his palms on the table. "You don't want that! It's awful and dull here—nothing to see but crops and cows. If I could do anything I wanted, I would see all there is to see and never farm another day in my life."

Laughing indulgently, Aristide ruffled Erik's red hair. "Ah, what am I saying, you're young yet—of course settling in a cottage with a woman isn't the first thing on your mind. Tell you what though, boy. I'll leave you this map of Skyrim, so if one day you do happen to catch a horse-cart out of here, you'll know where to go. And how to find your way back. I'll even show you how to read it."

"Thank you," Erik beamed.

Pointing to a spot on the map, Aristide said, "This here is Rorikstead, where we are right now."

"Where's Whiterun?"

"Here." Aristide moved his finger far to the right.

Erik groaned. "That _is_ very far away."

Aristide smiled consolingly. "Not so much when you have a horse."

When Aristide was long gone, Erik spent most of his time with his leather map. He took corks from the empty ale bottles in the inn and pretended that they were little soldiers, positioned all over the map, guarding villages and castles. It was his favourite game, and his father would always have to pry him away from the map to get him to weed the field and clean the inn.

Erik grew to resent Rorikstead as the expanse of fields and hills beyond it called out to him. There was so much more, farther than what he could see, so much more than what he'd known throughout his life—and here he was, farming.

Upon turning three-and-ten years, Erik told his father that he would be of further use elsewhere.

"I'm not suited to tending the soil," Erik complained in the darkness of their bedroom. "I should find my calling outside of Rorikstead, father."

Mralki frowned sadly without his son seeing. "Erik ... we don't have the coin for all that. Once we do though, perhaps one day."

Erik imagined a rich traveller riding into the village one day, a noble in fine garb who would bless their inn with patronage. He hoped it would happen soon.

* * *

Erik woke, startled by screaming and sounds of clashing steel and iron. Mralki leaped out of bed, opening the closet at the corner of their small bedroom. He pulled out a steel war hammer.

"Stay here and bar the door, Erik. Don't make a sound," his father ordered, voice hard but calm.

Erik scrambled out of bed, eyes wide with terror. "Father, what's happening?"

Mralki strode towards the door with one last glance at his son. "Do as I say." His gaze softened as he pulled the door open. "I'll be back soon." He left without another word.

Confused and frightened, Erik moved to do as his father said. He barred the door and sat on his bed, listening to the loud voices outside. His ears strained to listen, to make sense of the chaos outside the inn walls, his heart pounding madly inside his chest. He must have fallen asleep, because when he came to consciousness again the village was silent.

Hurriedly, he got out of bed and unbarred the door, running out into the inn on his bare feet. No one was around, the rooms strangely void of their guests. Erik made his way to the front door, immediately picking up on distant voices in the village. Pulling the heavy door open, he was greeted by a sight he had seen before.

Bodies lay in the road, surrounded by pools of blood. Bodies of strangers, bodies of soldiers, bodies of men and women dressed in strange armour. Swords and axes splitting open heads and spilling bellies. The air smelled like cold morning dew and metal.

Erik froze in the doorway.

He could see his father in the middle of the village, weary and pale, war hammer in hand. It looked clean. Mralki stood with others from the village: Lokir, Rorik, Jouane, Ennis, and Lemkil. They spoke with a soldier and their voices carried in the wind.

"Damn bandits fell upon us in the dead of night ..."

"... killed two of the folks stupid enough to run out of the inn ..."

"Curse those bastards to Oblivion. They'll pay for this."

The soldier spoke up, his voice gravelly. "Most of them managed to escape. I've sent word to the jarl. No doubt his steward will send out a bounty in a matter of days. The savages will pay for this."

Mralki nodded. "Aye, and if any mercenaries stop by, I'll be sure to pass along the news at the inn." His eyes lifted and met with Erik's. It was then that Erik felt the cold wetness on his cheeks.

* * *

From then on, Mralki refused to talk about the world beyond Rorikstead. He insisted firmly that Erik do his chores instead of having his head up in the clouds with his map and cork soldiers. Erik couldn't understand and it made him miserable. He hated picking weeds and harvesting the crops. He loathed baking bread and polishing the flagons. There was nothing else he wanted to do except escape elsewhere.

"Have you learned nothing, Erik?" his father asked, exhausted after telling Erik to polish the plates he hadn't cleaned properly the first time. "You must get these silly ideas of travel out of your head—there are dangers out there that you don't understand. You saw enough of it the other day."

"I can be brave," Erik muttered, scrubbing a plate. "I'll be strong and kill those monsters."

Mralki's face hardened. "Not another word."

Erik cried quietly that night, refusing to let his father hear his disheartened sobs. He refused to give up his dreams of far away places—more than ever, Erik wanted to leave his village. He wanted to take his father's war hammer and smite those who brought death into Rorikstead.

When his father was out in the field one day, Erik snuck into their bedroom and opened the closet containing his father's war hammer. He tried to lift it, but his thin arms couldn't bear the weight. Erik barely moved the hammer and he was filled with new despair. How could he ever hope to fight the bandits that attacked his village if he couldn't even lift a weapon?

He moved about the next few days slow and lethargic, filled with disappointment at his own weakness. Erik began to abandon his map and cork soldiers, leaving them untouched underneath his bed.

Seven nights after the bandit attack, Erik noticed while cleaning a table that a stranger had paid a visit at the inn. The Whiterun soldiers' armour paled in comparison to the kind that the stranger wore. The plates gleamed gold and green and sparkled brighter than spring water in the sun. The sword at his hip matched the rest of his garb, clinking as he strode to Mralki at the counter. The man was tall like a Nord, and had pale skin like one, but something about his wide set features and amber eyes told Erik that he wasn't from Skyrim.

He watched as the man and his father talked quietly over the counter. Mralki produced a slip of paper and handed it to the man, who then took a seat at one of the tables and waved over at Erik.

"A flagon of Black-Briar mead," he said in a voice that sounded like music. He tossed Erik a gold coin and waited silently for his drink.

When Erik brought a flagon back to the stranger, the question seemed to tumble right out of his mouth, "Are you a soldier?"

The man burst out laughing, long and loud, almost spewing his mead everywhere. "A soldier? Me? Why in the nine would I do that?"

Erik frowned. "Because it's an important duty. The jarl has soldiers guard villages and castles."

He laughed even more and something about the sound of his voice was oddly pleasant, like the warmth of a fire. "That it is, boy. But it doesn't pay nearly as well as being a sellsword."

"A sellsword?"

The man nodded, waving his free hand around. "A sellsword. A mercenary. O'course, it takes more skill than being your run off the mill soldier, but you don't have to answer to no captain or anything. Getting paid by nobles to hunt down someone they don't like, do a really nice job of cleaning them off the face of Nirn. Or just regular bandit hunting for some jarl who can't be bothered to have one of his own get up off their backside. That's the job I'm here for. And it pays quite well." He downed the last of his mead and stood from the bench. Rummaging through his pack, the man in the shining green armour addressed Erik once again, "I shouldn't be gone long. Have a bed ready and warm for me before midnight."

The stranger dropped a handful of gold coins on the table, more than enough for a week's stay at the inn, and strode out into the night.

At that moment, Erik knew how he would get out of Rorikstead.

* * *

_Writer's Note: This is my first Elder Scrolls fanfiction, so while it might not be littered with veteran experience, I hope you enjoy reading it nonetheless :)_

_The title "Hahnu Do Keizal" is dragontongue, translating to "Dream of Skyrim." If there is meaning to be gained from it, I hope I can communicate it well in future chapters. So yes, multi-chapter story :)_

_Responses are always appreciated._


	2. Chapter One: Faal Siiv Qostiid

_Hahnu Do Keizal_

by Toasted Panic

_Chapter One_

_Faal Siiv Qostiid_

_(The Found Prophecy)_

"Hey, you ... you're finally awake."

Eyes slowly blinked open, staring blankly, unseeingly at the wood of the wagon floor. The distant voice spoke again, less hazy this time. There was mist all around. It was hard to see through the blurry grey shapes. Why couldn't she move?

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there."

Ambush? She could hear horses trotting, wheels rolling against brittle ground. What ambush?

"Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy ... If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

Skyrim? Stormcloaks? All she wanted to do was sleep. She felt half awake, her eyes drooping, her body sluggish. How quiet it felt, wherever she was heading.

"You there!"

She looked up slowly. Was someone speaking to her?

"We shouldn't be here. It's the Stormcloaks the empire wants."

It was so hard to understand. She struggled to speak but her voice refused and all she mustered was silence. She wasn't supposed to be here?

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

"Shut up back there!"

She wanted so badly to ask. But words ... which were the right ones?

"What's wrong with _him_, huh?"

"_Watch your tongue_. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King."

"Ulfric? The jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion ... but if they've captured you ... oh, _gods_. Where are they taking us?!"

She wanted to ask what was wrong, what was happening, why she shouldn't be there. But all she could do was try and ward off the sleep that loomed over her like a thick, warm blanket. How wonderful it would be to close her eyes, to feel the rocking of the wagon and fall into darkness. How wonderful it would be to have that dream again. What had she been dreaming of before she woke? It was something lovely, like a song and sunshine. Were there flowers and water, too? It had been warm, that she was sure of. And a woman's voice ...

"I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits."

She dreamt of a woman's voice. The woman sang a song, a song she knew by heart. But she was so sleepy, it was hard to remember.

"_No_, this can't be happening ... this isn't happening!"

"Hey ... what village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts ... should be of home."

Home.

Sleep took her once more. Instead of the dream of sunshine and song and the woman's gentle voice, all she could hear and see were the black of silence. She stood in the middle, within the vastness of the dark hush, looking up at a sky of nothing, feeling like she should have seen something there. Something familiar.

"A Nord's last thoughts ..." she whispered, "should be of _home_."

Skyrim.

Home.

Is that what it was? What was she supposed to remember?

_Naal ok zin los vahriin wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal._

"Sworn to keep evil ... forever at bay."

She could hear it. The song. The woman was singing. She loved whenever she sang that song. It was her favourite one out of all the songs she knew. The words were so beautiful. She remembered someone saying to her once that it was the only language fit for poetry. She smiled and nodded to the memory. How did the rest of it go?

"Believe ... believe ..." the whispered words struggled to form what came next. They hung in the air for a moment, waiting, still with anticipation. Then, she remembered. As easily as she drew breath, she sang in a small voice.

"_Mindok, faal Dovahkiin alokaan_."

_Believe, the Dragonborn comes._

The waggon jolted to a stop. She woke and suddenly the song was silent, swallowed by wakefulness, vanishing into thin air. They were in the middle of a village with towers and houses. What were the words? What was she supposed to remember? The voices around her were alive once more and she wanted badly to shake them off. They all needed to be quiet. She wanted to hear the song again.

Someone was pushing on her. It was time to get off the waggon.

Her legs felt like water. She followed the others as they stood on firm ground. Where were they? The air smelled like morning, of hearth fire and pine. There were loud voices everywhere, they made it hard to think. One of the men from the wagon was shouting. She could almost smell it—the desperate fear in his voice.

They were calling out names, the people dressed in red and silver armour. They sounded familiar.

"Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Ralof of Riverwood.

"Lokir of Rorkstead."

"NO, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

He ran. She watched his back getting smaller as he bolted up the cobbled road. Was that his heartbeat drumming painfully, or was it hers against her chest? Everything happened all at once.

"HALT."

"You're not gonna kill me!"

He sounded so far away. It seemed like he would disappear, like his legs would carry him far away. Something, a whisper in her head, told her, "_Ru, kril kiir. Ru._"_ Run, brave child. Run. _She wanted to shake her head, no, she shouldn't run. She couldn't. It was painful to move her legs. Like running on icy water and shards of sand.

"ARCHERS."

She could barely hear the feathered fletching whistle in the air as the broadhead of an arrow sank shaft deep into the back of the man who ran. Lokir of Rorikstead. That was his name. She watched Lokir fall to the ground. The dull thump seemed to echo. He wasn't moving. She stared. She couldn't breathe.

"Anyone else feel like running?"

The woman's voice pierced the cold air and was met with stunned and fearful silence.

She wanted to shake her head. No. No running. But she wasn't supposed to be here.

"Wait, you there."

Someone else was speaking. The man calling out names. He was speaking to her. She turned to look at him, eyes wide, blank, almost unseeing, the dead body a fixed vision.

"Step forward."

Cold fear bid her to follow the order. Her legs moved, one foot in front of the other. She could see his pale face closely now, the man dressed in silver and red, holding a quill in his hand.

"Who ... are you?"

Her mind drew a blank. A name, she needed her name. But ... which one.

_Amativahzen._

No. They wouldn't understand that one. Few people did. What did they call her, the ones who brought her so close to home? The ones she no longer saw around her? Were they dead like Lokir? What should she tell the man? He was waiting, watching her with a face void of expression. What was she supposed to tell him?

Her mouth opened slowly. Her throat felt so dry, it seemed like her voice would crack and come out brittle and hoarse.

"Lanre."

_Lahn—ree._ It sounded like a song of sand and red hot summer suns, a place by the glowing blue sea, not at all like these cold mountain shadows and soldier pines. She could barely muster a whisper, but there it was in the air, her first spoken word in this strange, familiar place. She needed to remember that name.

"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman."

Home? But Lanre wasn't from here. Was she?

"Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

"Forget the list," scoffed a woman in a familiar plumed helmet. "She goes to the block." She was the one who called for archers.

"By your orders, captain ..." The man seemed hesitant, his expression almost sorrowfully apologetic. "I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland."

Lanre's heart thrummed frantically, beating painfully against her ribcage. She didn't want to die. She needed to be alive. But why? Why was this happening? Why was she here? Why did they want to kill her? Why did they kill Lokir? Her head hurt, the blood underneath her scalp pulsing, fit to bursting.

"Follow the captain, prisoner."

She complied, willing all the sound to cease. Lanre wanted sleep. It felt like the only thing that made sense. Everything seemed to slow, even the people talking. It was a distorted blur to her, as if she was just now only waking. Or falling asleep again. That didn't seem so terrible. The smell of pine filled her nose. Was this the scent of home, or was it the salt of the warm sea? Skyrim, or some other place she could barely remember? Lanre felt as if she could remember, if only she could lie on the ground and close her eyes. She hated knowing nothing.

What was that sound? It seemed like the sky was speaking to her. How strange. Maybe she _was_ dreaming.

"MY ANCESTORS ARE SMILING AT ME, IMPERIALS. CAN YOU SAY THE SAME?"

No. She was awake. Lanre was almost sure of it.

"YOU IMPERIAL BASTARDS."

"JUSTICE."

"_Death_ to the Stormcloaks."

They all sounded so far away.

"Next, the Nord in the rags."

Lanre looked up. _She means me._

She had a vague idea of what was about to happen. The block was visible in the corner of her eye, already covered in warm blood, giving off gentle steam in the cold air. There was a headless body on the ground. Lanre didn't want to smell so much blood.

She stepped forward. Her body was numb. This wasn't happening to her. She wanted to close her eyes and pretend this body belonged to someone else.

Was the sky talking to her again?

"I said, _next prisoner_."

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

The people in armour were addressing her again, urging her to the slaughter. Like a frightened lamb, she kept moving forward on ungainly legs.

The ground felt hard and cold as she knelt. She could feel the warm wetness of the block against her cheek as she turned her head up, gazing at the masked man with the bloody axe. The sky was shining behind his back, making him look like a large fat shadow dressed in fur. She could see the mountains in the distance. They were brighter this time, pale blue against the clouds.

Skyrim. Were those her last thoughts? She could barely remember the place by the sea, the place where the woman would sing that song to her, in a language she knew by heart. All she knew were the pale blue mountains and viridian pines of Skyrim.

The sky roared.

"WHAT IN OBLIVION IS THAT."

The world erupted as black wings burst from behind the mountains. Lanre could hear everything and nothing at once, panicked words and shouts blurring into chaos. The black wings enveloped the tower above her.

She stared, deaf to the world.

Red eyes bore into her, hot and scorching, like black smoke drowning lungs. Death by fire.

"_STRUN._"

The sky exploded and black clouds swirled, roaring death.

Lanre watched the dragon's red eyes, still as stone. They cut into her.

"_Rok gro naal Rah do naal lok_," Lanre found herself whispering.

_DOVAHKIIN._

She was awake.

* * *

Erik swung his sword in one last clean arc. Iron bit down hard into tree bark and pulled away with a brittle crack. His ears filled with his own ragged breathing and pounding heartbeat. Erik straightened his back and surveyed the damage. The pale bark bore the scars of years of hacking and slashing by his borrowed iron short sword, an old one that a Whiterun soldier had no longer needed.

What seemed a lifetime ago, his younger self had painted a rough image of a grown man on the dead tree, a nameless, faceless adversary he unleashed his wrath upon. The paint was weathered by the storms of time and his wild young fury, barely visible now that he was seven and ten.

Wiping cool sweat from his brow, Erik smiled down at the blunt iron sword in his hand. "If you were any sharper, I'd have cut my foe down this time," he laughed brightly, sheathing it at his hip. With a lingering glance at his unmoving enemy, Erik jogged up the hill towards Rorikstead.

The dead tree beyond the hill near Lund's hut was far enough from the village that Erik wouldn't be bothered by prying eyes. It was where he ran off when he finished his chores early—but mostly when he felt like skipping his farming duties for a day. He would grab his sword from his secret hiding place behind the house and sneak off beyond the road, out of sight of anyone. There, he met his enemy almost every day for the past four years, clumsily honing his skills.

"I could surely fend off a bandit now," he said aloud as he hurried up the hill. "If any of those cowards ever attack Rorikstead again, I'll be ready." Erik patted his sword hilt with a grin. "And all the bandits would go running with their tails between their legs! They'd crawl into their damp and dirty caves and whisper to the others, 'Better not go to Rorikstead anymore. We were thrown out by their mighty warrior—Erik the Slayer, he's called. Gods, how terrifying! He moves as swift as the wind and cuts men in _half_ with his greatsword.'" Frowning, Erik raised his hand to scratch his beard. "Of course, I'd have to get myself a greatsword for all that. I couldn't be a proper warrior without one. All in good time, I suppose."

The setting autumn sun was low in the sky when Erik finally managed to sneak back into the inn after putting his sword away. He readied himself to explain to Mralki why exactly the manure had yet to be on the field, but noticed that most of the villagers were gathered around two strangers at a table. They were Nord men wearing hide armour. Their faces were dark from the sun, brightened by the excitement in their eyes as they spoke to the villagers in hushed tones.

Curious, Erik approached, pushing himself in between Lemkil and Rorik.

"What's all this about?" he asked.

Lemkil grunted and muttered to him, "A pack of lies, that's what. Talk of legends and flying monsters—_bah, _what a bunch of nonsense."

Erik's eyes grew wide. Turning to the two strangers, he asked, "What does he mean 'flying monsters'?"

Before either of the men could speak, Lemkil scoffed and sneered, "Of course only a half-wit like you would be interested. I just told you—it's stark raving madness."

"Watch your tongue," the younger of the two strangers with long blond hair and moss green eyes finally spoke up. "I've never been known to show a naked blade to my elders before, but this time I might make an exception for making us liars."

His companion, an older man with a smiling face and brown eyes, laughed heartily and patted him on the back. "Easy, Willas. We might have seen it with our own eyes, but the news of Helgen is harder to believe than anything else. Might even be easier to believe that the Imperial scum cooked up the story to convince us they hadn't burned the village themselves."

Erik frowned, more confused than before. "Did you say Helgen burned down? How come? What's happened?"

The young man with green eyes leaned forward in his seat, staring up at Erik. "I'll tell the tale true, that you can be sure of. Always have since Jormund and I set out west to flee from that nightmare. And you and I know that Nords flee from no small thing."

Erik was enraptured. He nodded, encouraging Willas to continue.

Solemn green eyes lit up as Willas spoke. "Jormund and I travel between Falkreath and Helgen every fortnight. We're hunters, you see, and whatever we can't sell in the city we try and sell at the settlement. One morning a few days ago, we're travelling up the northeast road to Helgen, and suddenly we hear this hellish roar up in the mountains. Didn't sound like any bear or wolf we've ever seen in our lives. It was loud, too—folk up in Riverwood probably heard. It was that loud. Jormund here thought it was thunder. I shook my head, real slow with my eyes on the sky. 'That doesn't sound like thunder.' Everything went real quiet for a moment. So we decide to keep on walking—but _there it is again_. It was louder this time, too, I felt like my ears would start bleeding. At this point, we're wondering if it was wiser to head back to Falkreath. There wasn't any time to go on and say so, though—because that's when we heard the screaming. Sure as winter, we knew it was coming from Helgen."

The entire inn was silent with baited breath and even the roaring fire seemed muted.

Willas gave his audience a sweeping glance. "We never ran so fast in our lives. Bows drawn, swords at the ready—we thought we could help those poor people out, whatever it was they were fending off. We got as close as the gates, and by Talos ... my blood ran cold."

Beside Willas, Jormund's cheerfulness seemed to have vanished, his solemn eyes fixed on his companion with wariness.

"The sky was dark all of a sudden, black clouds swirling like an angry storm with flaming rocks raining down. The black _thing_ on top of the watch tower was huge—so large it could have swallowed ten men whole. It had leathery black wings that cast a shadow bigger than a longhouse, horns taller than any man, and glowing red eyes like burning coal. The way it looked down at the village—a gaze like that could turn the bravest warrior into stone. Its fanged black mouth was spewing oily fire, burning everything in sight—gods, the _smell_ ... but the screams were the worst. Death by fire is an ugly thing."

Willas cast his gaze down, gripping his mug of ale hard enough to turn his sunburned knuckles white.

"As I live and breathe—a dragon. A real dragon. My eyes couldn't believe it. Pa used to tell me stories about them, how they've been dead for thousands of years. But there it was in the flesh, the vilest thing I've ever laid eyes on. We knew right then and there that fighting would earn nothing but death, a lost battle if I've ever seen one—and as much as we would have liked to see the halls of Sovngarde, the people in the village still needed help. We rescued however many we could and sent word to Falkreath and Whiterun. Helgen was completely destroyed and the air down south smelled like nothing but ash and burnt rock. The dragon had flown off—gods know where—and neither of us have heard of it since. Jormund and I set out east the next day."

Willas ended with a hasty swig from his mug.

The room suddenly burst into movement and scattered noise.

"But that can't _be—_dragons are dead!"

"Gods have mercy, what if it comes here to our village?"

"The soldiers won't stance a chance."

"It's all a bunch of horse sh—"

"Those poor people ... having their homes destroyed. Where would they go?"

Erik felt his heart racing. He looked from Willas to Jormund and joined in the foray of words, shouting louder above the rest. "Do you think there's a bounty on the dragon?"

There was a pause that swept a hush over the room. Then it was broken by Jormund's laugh, a snort from Willas, and an enraged shout from Lemkil, "You're dumb as a sack of potatoes, boy. What jarl would call a hunt for a monster like that?"

Erik glared. "I thought you said it was all a bunch of nonsense, you milk-drinking woolsack."

"Why you little—"

Jouane Manette raised his hands in a placating manner with an easy smile on his face. "Settle down now. Lemkil, I'm sure Erik didn't mean that—"

"But I _did_."

"— and I'm sure that we will all be fine. Just fine. We've done well here in Rorikstead, all of us, even with the empire's war still raging. The jarls of Skyrim must have heard the news and I'm sure something is being done—this concerns all of the realm. However, there's no use for worry, not right now. We must carry on as we always have. It is the best we can do."

Rorik nodded beside his friend. "Here, here. Jouane is right. We haven't even seen the beast—it would be pointless to run around like headless chickens. Best not add to the chaos. We should attend to our tasks instead of chattering and fumbling with our hands."

There was a sense of hesitation in the inn as people nodded their heads and murmured their agreement. The small crowd dispersed and Jouane lingered for a moment to nod in acknowledgement toward Willas and Jormund. "Thank you for the news, and do enjoy your time in Rorikstead," he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "This close to the Reach, well, we are truly blessed to have such fertile ground."

Jormund nodded in kind. "We do what we must. And while we might not stay here long, we'll remember Rorikstead. Perhaps we'll even come back, with, one can only hope, happier news."

"One can always hope. Peace and prosperity are all the good folk of Rorikstead want in life_._ Good night, lads." Jouane departed, leaving only the guests, Mralki, and Erik within Frostfruit Inn.

Erik wanted desperately to speak with them, but a knowing look from his father forced his legs to move and he proceeded to clear the tables of empty plates and mugs. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jormund and Willas murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Erik tried to shuffle closer to catch their whispers.

"Perhaps we should stay a while. Doesn't look like they have too many guards about the place," Willas suggested in between bites of his brown bread.

Jormund shrugged. "It's peaceful enough with wide open fields. I don't think hunting here should be a problem for us. I don't see the harm in staying, so long as we don't stir up any trouble. Besides, Markarth and Solitude don't seem like good options, what with their high walls and imperial roaches."

Willas shot him a pointed look. "Curb your talk of the empire. Tensions are high these days, and allegiance is a fickle and ill-disguised thing. I don't want to see your head on a spike."

"What can I say, I'm a fearless Nord through and through," Jormund shrugged, chuckling.

Snorting, Willas muttered, "Fearless and careless."

"I couldn't help overhearing—but, you said you were staying? Here, in _Rorikstead_?"

Willas's green eyes darted sharply to Erik. He narrowed his gaze. "Maybe the old man was right about you—don't you know what happens to eavesdroppers?"

Erik scratched his head. "Well, geez, I'm sorry for overhearing your conversation while, you know, doing my job of cleaning. It's just that nobody ever stays here. People just come and go, and few ever visit again. It makes for an awful and dull life. I'd rather be an adventurer and roam the world. Like you two."

Willas rolled his eyes and went back to his mug, muttering something about naive children, but Jormund spoke, eyeing Erik in a thoughtful manner. "You might consider that a blessing one day, lad. You're young and full of fire now, but one day when you're a bag of old bones like me, you'll pine for a quiet home, a warm hearth with hot stew, and a gentle woman in your bed."

Snorting, Erik sat down at their table, snatching a roll of bread from a plate. "You don't look _that _old. And I've had enough of that all my life, thanks."

Jormund's face lit up with a wicked smirk. "You telling me you're the rakish type? You look too young for all that mischief, if you ask me. But then again, Willas here had his first girl when he was—"

Willas punched him hard on the arm before he could continue. Erik scowled and said "I meant I've had enough of all the quiet. Rorikstead is full of it."

Jormund rubbed his arm with a barely restrained chuckle. "Ah, but you know what it's obviously lacking?"

Willas sighed wistfully at his empty mug. "Women, that's what."

"Right you are. Nines have mercy, how do you stand it?" Jormund asked Erik incredulously.

Erik fidgeted in his seat. "They pass through. Sometimes."

"Old merchant crones selling cabbage and magic brews don't count," commented Willas as he swiped Jormund's mead.

"City lasses ..." Jormund sighed. "That's one thing worth bearing about those high walls. There's nothing quite like the sight of a woman in a blue dress, hair in the wind while she's selling flowers. Ever seen a pretty young girl out here, lad?"

"The name's Erik. And ... well. Can't say I have, no. I don't think Lemkil's little girls count."

Willas groaned. "We're in a for a long and tedious stay then ..."

"In that case," Erik began, almost nervously, dropping his voice so that Mralki wouldn't hear, "why don't you teach me how to fight? You said you were hunters, right? I mean, it's clear you won't stay here forever ... but neither will I! But while I'm still here, I'd like to do the best I can to protect the village. I mean, it's the least I can do for all the people. And if I want to be an adventurer one day, it would be good to learn. What do you say?"

Willas looked at him thoughtfully without a word. Jormund hummed and stroked his bearded chin. "Your heart's in the right place, Erik. I can say that of few people these days ... Do you have a sword?"

Erik's heart leaped into his throat. "I do! I mean ... it's not very sharp, and it's only made of iron, but I make do with it."

Jormund nodded. "I don't see why we can't show you a thing or two. To tell you the truth, we've a knack for bows, but if it's the basics of the sword you want to learn, we'll suffice. Rise early tomorrow for our hunt and we'll see what mischief we'll get up to in the fields." Standing from his seat, Jormund patted Erik on the back and made his way to a room at the side of the inn.

Willas shook his head, following Jormund's retreating form with his eyes. "He always did have a knack for picking up stray puppies."

Frowning, Erik bit into his bread and spoke through a mouthful. "Does that say anything about you, perhaps?"

Snorting, Willas stood and made his way to his own room. "Maybe you're not as dim as you seem. Good night, Erik."

Grinning as Willas disappeared behind his door, Erik finished his bread, scarfing down another loaf with a slice of cheese before clearing the rest of the table of the leftover food and plates. As he brought them behind the inn counter, Mralki looked up from his coin counting.

"I hope you weren't pestering our guests too much," he chided softly.

Erik shrugged. "Don't worry, father. I just asked them if they needed help with their hunting. So they're taking me with them tomorrow."

Worry creased Mralki's brow. "Erik, you know what I told you—it can be dangerous. And you don't have any armour ..."

"I'll be fine," Erik said, perhaps too sharply. It wasn't as if he couldn't fend for himself. Erik was fully capable of cutting down any foe that crossed his path. He simply had yet to prove his mettle, but that didn't mean he should be looked down upon by his own father. It stung bitterly, the way Mralki was unwilling to see Erik's strength and passion.

Mralki sighed, his gaze downcast. "You are my only son, Erik. My only living kin. Please understand."

Erik turned away, forgetting entirely about the pile of dirty plates in his wake. "Of course. Good night, father. I'll see you in the morning. Don't stay up too late."

He stepped into his room, a small one separated from his father's. He closed the door behind him and changed into his small clothes. Ignoring the awful silence he left beyond his door, Erik climbed into bed, falling fast asleep, anticipating the morning to come.

* * *

_Writer's Note: I'm having so much fun writing this story :) The song that Lanre remembers is based on the cover of "The Dragonborn Comes" by Malukah on Youtube. Check it out, if you haven't already! It's really cool :)_

_Using the dragon language is a fun and challenging task. When Lanre is looking at Alduin, she whispers something that translates to: "He is the God of the sky." I hope I did all of the translations right. If not, feel free to send a message my way to offer corrections of any sort :)_

_Also, I would love to read more Skryim fanfiction. I'm new to the community, so send me a message or mention in a review any story suggestions :) Doesn't matter if it's your own or someone else's, I'd love to read and review!_

_I hope this chapter was a good read. Until next time._


	3. Chapter Two: Mu Grind

_Hahnu Do Keizal_

by Toasted Panic

_Chapter Two_

_Mu Grind_

_(We Meet)_

"Have you been fighting _rocks_?"

Erik blushed sheepishly as Willas inspected his nicked iron sword with grave disappointment.

The three of them had ventured out east into the sprawling fields beyond Rorikstead before first light. They were all crouching down behind a cluster of boulders, awaiting game, Jormund with his longbow out while Willas whispered pointedly at Erik.

"This might do for practice, but in a real fight, you wouldn't stand a chance against well-forged steel," Willas muttered, lightly running the pads of his fingertips over the jagged edges of the short sword.

Erik fidgeted, trying to explain himself, "I'm saving up for a real sword ... but we don't make much in the village. I don't have nearly enough coin for anything fancy like steel."

Frowning, Willas handed the short sword to Erik. "It's unfortunate that neither of us could spare you one at the moment. Good steel doesn't fall off trees."

Jormund raised his hand, eyes trained on the distance. They stopped murmuring, watching the swaying of the grass for the movement of any living creature. The sleepy dawn was silent and cool, reminding them that they were alone.

"Much easier to see and be seen out here," Jormund whispered. "Silence and stillness are our allies. Be mindful of that, Erik."

Erik nodded.

They spent a few silent moments waiting and watching.

"So ... when will we practice?"

Willas grunted, readying his bow. "When we catch something."

Erik glanced around at the quiet, empty field. "But there's _nothing_ here."

"Not if you keep yapping."

Jormund took his eyes off the watch to glance skeptically at Erik. "Have you ever hunted anything in your life before?"

"Well ..."

"And you call yourself a Nord, boy?"

"Don't call me _boy_," growled Erik, jabbing a finger at Willas. "You're not any older than me, you know!"

Groaning, Jormund knocked both of their heads with one swipe of his bow. "Quiet down, pups. We're losing darkness. Willas, keep watch on the west side. You can knock Erik around all you like later. For now—_vigilance_."

Erik let out an indignant mutter, which earned him another thwack. Willas grinned and did as he was told, crouching low on the grass, watching the western side of the field.

"Well, what does that leave me to do?" Erik asked, sitting against a boulder with his arms crossed.

"If you can manage to be quiet," Willas whispered, "that would be a welcome start. If by some miracle you manage that, then watch and learn."

Rolling his eyes, Erik grudgingly kept his silence. He'd gotten up before the crack of dawn for this? How dull. It wasn't his fault he couldn't shoot an arrow. He'd never even held a bow before, let alone killed a moving target with a clean strike. Swords were infinitely preferable in his opinion. He thought of the many failings of a bow compared to a sharp steel sword to amuse himself, watching Jormund and Willas as they calmly surveyed the sleeping world for prey. A bow was practically useless in combat—only a coward shot at his enemy from a distance. Erik was no coward. He would meet any foe blade for blade. Besides, how could one miss with a sword?

The creaking sound of taut string drew Erik from his thoughts.

He watched as Willas, arrow nocked, drew his arm back in a smooth motion, aiming at the distance. Erik looked ahead, confused when he saw nothing, then widened his eyes, bewildered when he spotted an antlered form bent over the grass. _How_ could Willas have seen it? The sky was still dark and the stag was far away. The distance between them and the animal was easily longer than the wheat fields.

Erik caught Willas glancing at him from the side. His green eyes dared Erik to make a sound.

Quick as lightning, almost soundlessly, Willas let loose.

There was a faint whistle in the air, and before Erik could blink, the stag in the distance had slumped to the ground. Willas bolted, Jormund fast on his heels. Erik scrambled from his seat, racing after them as they ran towards their kill. When Erik reached them, they were standing a few feet away from the animal. It was on the ground, Willas's arrow buried deep in its heart. The stag was dying, eyes darting wildly, filled with fear.

Willas quickly stepped forward with his knife, kneeling beside the stag to slit its thick, long neck. He muttered hushed words that Erik couldn't hear as he drained the last of the animal's life. He wiped his bloody knife on the brown fur. Standing, he sheathed it in his boot again, turning to Erik with a grin. "That was damn quick."

Erik gaped. "That was _amazing_. How did you do that?"

Producing rope from his pack, Willas shrugged as he began tying the stag's legs together. "When a clean shot is the different between a month's worth of food or a month with an empty belly, your instincts gladly do the choosing for you. Always remember: aim for the heart."

Astonished, Erik was speechless as he watched Willas and Jormund truss up the dead stag by its limp ankles.

"Ah ... we need a long pole to carry it back to the village. Couldn't hoist this thing up on my shoulder if I wanted to," Jormund muttered as he straightened his back, wiping sweat from his brow.

"I can get that for you!" Erik sprinted off toward the village eagerly. He was panting when he arrived, his temples misted with cool salty moisture. Knowing where to find what he needed, he went to the chopping block and procured a long and sturdy piece of wood. He tried bending it this way and that to test its strength. Satisfied that it wouldn't give, Erik carefully hoisted it up on his shoulders and jogged back, retracing his steps.

He met Ennis down the road as the older man stepped out of his house to start another day of work. The Redguard farmer gave him a strange look.

"Might not be my business to ask," he said as Erik hurriedly passed, "but just _what_ do you plan on doing with that pole?"

"Those hunters staying with us caught a deer!" Erik shouted without bothering to turn back.

Ennis simply shook his head in wordless reply, continuing on his way to the fields.

Erik lost no time at all in getting back to Willas and Jormund. Jormund look mildly impressed as Erik tossed the pole on the ground, huffing and panting. As Erik rested his hands on his knees, doubled over with the struggle to catch his breath, he saw Willas grumbling as he handed a very pleased looking Jormund a gold coin.

"What's that about?" Erik asked, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his shirt sleeve.

Jormund grinned, tossing the coin up in the air, snatching it back to pocket it. "Young Willas here bet that you'd get lost on your way." Patting Erik on the back, Jormund picked up the pole from the ground. "I bet him that you'd make it back before sunrise."

"He _barely _did," Willas humphed, but nonetheless gave Erik a look of mild approval as the sky started to turn a hazy pink.

* * *

"Again, Erik—swing up and to the side when he comes down at you like that."

Erik panted, casting a baleful look at Jormund. The old hunter was sitting on the chopping block, munching on an apple, happy as a cat with cream. For the past three hours, he'd done nothing but sit there, yelling out useless bits of advice as Willas beat, disarmed, and cornered Erik in their mock duels by the cabbage field. They'd fashioned swords out of long pieces of wood and it made Erik feel foolish.

Erik lunged forward with a war cry, swiping at Willas angrily. The fair haired hunter back-stepped swiftly.

"I still can't believe you're only seven-and-ten!" Erik growled, driving Willas back with quick and savage strokes of his wooden sword. The discovery he'd made at breakfast was making his day of defeat more and more humiliating. He was of an age with Willas, but the disparity of skill between them was enough to shame him.

Smirking, Willas sidestepped deftly, causing Erik to trip and stagger forward. He lost his footing and fell face first into the dirt, his sword flying from his hand.

Jormund barked a loud laugh, spewing flecks of apple everywhere.

Willas stood over Erik, grinning down at him. "Had enough yet, Red? Or will you finally let up and let us all have some lunch?"

Grunting into the dirt, Erik dove for his weapon, lunging in an upper slice. Willas squawked, losing his sword to Erik's blow as he staggered back in surprise.

Jormund sounded like he was about to choke with laughter.

Erik stood straight, still panting, sword pointed at Willas. Willas stared with his mouth hanging open, his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"That _can't_ possibly count."

Erik raised a brow, withdrawing his sword. "What was it you said earlier? I think it was something like: 'All is fair in a real fight when your life is on the line. So we'll duel like it.'" Erik beamed proudly. "A win is a win."

"He's right," Jormund shouted from his seat. "That is precisely what you said earlier."

Willas rolled his eyes and picked up his wooden sword. "That's still only one to twenty. Now, come on, I've entertained you enough. I'm hungry." Without waiting for either Erik or Jormund, he strode up the hill toward the inn, muttering darkly underneath his breath.

Erik frowned down at his wooden sword, deflated. Willas was right. He hadn't done well at all, and if that taught him anything, it was that he hadn't been as strong and capable as he thought. What a joke. Lemkil might have been right about Erik not being so bright. But Erik always told himself that things of that nature wouldn't matter if he was a strong and fearsome warrior. He'd been so confident and sure—now he felt weak and stupid. His dreams of being a legendary mercenary felt like they'd been dashed upon rocks.

"Ah, cheer up, lad," Jormund said, putting an arm around Erik's shoulders, steering him up towards the inn. "To tell you the truth, Willas himself wasn't too skilled of a swordsman when I first started teaching him. You improved much faster in a day's time, I can tell you that."

Erik looked up at him with surprise. "But he moves so much faster than anyone I've ever seen before ..."

Jormund gave Erik a vaguely fond look. "T'be fair, I don't think you've seen a great deal of battles."

Erik scowled but Jormund waved off his petulant grunt and continued, "Don't take that the wrong way. I'm trying to make a point. Between you and Willas, he's had more close scrapes with death trying to survive out in the world than you have. You see, Erik, young Willas lost his parents in the Great War—back when he was much younger than I'm comfortable thinking about. He's had to steal, sneak, and sell his way into a decent living. A lot of orphaned boys unlucky enough have done the same. That was all before I came along and taught him the hunt. You know it took him more than three years to kill anything larger than a hare with a bow? Three years, lad! So don't be too hard on yourself. Skill like that doesn't sprout overnight like some magic bean."

Gaping, Erik murmured quietly, "Willas did all that? Well, that's ..."

"Thrice damned luck? I'll tell you," Jormund sighed, shaking his head. "But as you see, he's done better for himself. He's a good lad, that Willas. He might be sharp with you, but that's because he doesn't believe in mollycoddling. You might be surprised, Erik, but I think he's actually quite fond of you."

"Now why is that so hard to believe," Erik muttered as they approached the door to the inn.

Jormund laughed. "I never said he wasn't the prickly sort. Now mind you, you heard _none_ of this from me."

Nodding with a conspiratorial grin, Erik pushed open the inn door and stepped inside, greeted by the warmth of a roaring fire.

"What took you two so long?" Willas called out from a table, peering at them suspiciously.

Shrugging, Jormund sat down with Erik, reaching for a mug of ale and a plate of cheese and bread. "Erik just needed to nurse his wounded pride, is all. Now I take it you paid for all this?"

Willas looked mildly offended. "Of course I did, you old coot."

"As long as it's not my money," Jormund laughed.

* * *

"How long are you two planning to stay in Rorikstead?"

Erik's voice carried through the quiet inn. He, Willas, and Jormund were gathered around the hearth, resting after their meal. After Erik asked his question, Willas and Jormund exchanged a look, then shrugged simultaneously.

"Who knows," said Willas, his voice airy with content as he leaned back in his seat.

Jormund caught the wistful look in Erik's blue eyes and took a moment longer to respond after some thought. "Hmm. With all sorts of unseemly things brewing all over Skyrim these days," he began, gazing intently at the roaring fire, "a life of hunting near the larger cities doesn't seem as peaceful as it used to."

Erik caught Willas frowning to himself, his thin brows furrowed.

Jormund continued with a heavy sigh. "Everywhere you turn these days, it's all talk of usurpers, rebellion, war, and Daedra-damned dragons. By the Nine, it would leave you with ulcers. What I would give for the regular old gossip—like who's husband bedded which wife and why he stole the other man's goat—that sort of merry thing. Has no one anything _cheerful_ to gossip about anymore?"

"That's not true," Willas said incredulously. "There's talk of the Dragonborn."

Erik suddenly straightened in his chair. "You mean the legend?"

Willas nodded. "That's right. Some say that the fall of the empire and the beginning of the civil war—and now dragons—are all signs of an ancient prophecy. It foretells the coming of a powerful warrior that will save the world from destruction."

"The Dragonborn ..." Erik whispered, the syllables dancing slow reverence on the tip of his tongue. "Do you really think he's coming? Here, in Skyrim?" he asked Jormund and Willas, eyes bright with excitement.

"No one knows," Willas shrugged. "It sounds farfetched, if you ask me."

"So do dragons," Erik protested.

Nodding hesitantly, Willas muttered, "Aye. So do dragons ..."

All three of them let the silence settle for a moment, their spoken words hanging expectantly in the air. They exchanged looks with one another, waiting for someone to talk, to elaborate on the enigma.

"So ..." Erik began with a hesitant whisper. "What do you think he'd look like?"

"If he was as real as you and me?" Jormund asked. "I'd bet a hundred septims and a horse that he'd be a Nord."

Willas grinned. "And I'd bet another hundred that he'd be a veteran of the Great War."

"Why a veteran?" Erik asked.

"Well, he could be anybody—that's what I hear, at least. But don't you think it makes sense for a hero like that to have been in the Great War? The Dragonborn has probably seen the greatest battles of this age."

"So, if he could be anyone," Erik wondered aloud, "do you think _I_ could be the Dragonborn?"

To his chagrin, Jormund let loose bellowing laughter that practically shook the rafters. Willas gave Erik a mildly pitying look as he said, "You have as much chance of being the Dragonborn as an Argonian bar maid."

Erik scowled at the two of them. "It's not _that_ ridiculous! If anyone could be the Dragonborn, then I stand as much of a chance as anyone else."

"Well, lad," Jormund coughed after his bout of mirth. "I'll tell you what. Willas and I will each put down a hundred septims—"

"I don't consent."

"—if you do indeed turn out to be the Dragonborn."

Erik's eyes widened.

"Or ..." Jormund lowered his voice, his eyes twinkling with a hint of madness. "Or ... if you _find_ the great hero yourself."

Two hundred septims.

_Two hundred septims_, Erik's mind whispered at him. His throat felt dry as he croaked, "You're not serious, are you?" He'd never seen anything close to a pile of two hundred gold coins in his life.

Jormund's grin was manic. "On my honour as a Nord, I swear, lad. We'll give you two hundred septims if you do this thing."

"If I do this ..." Erik stuttered.

Willas grunted, shooting a sideways glare at Jormund. "The odds are—how did that one drunk scholar say it? 'Astronomical.' You stand as much of a chance being the Dragonborn as you do finding him." Patting Erik on the back, he stood from his seat. "We don't even know if the bastard's _real. _Count me in."

* * *

Erik tossed and turned in his bed that night.

_Two hundred septims._

_ Be the Dragonborn. Or find him._

_ Two hundred septims_.

"What in the Nine would I do with two hundred septims?" Erik wondered aloud in disbelief. It was an absurd amount of coin. Could he even manage to spend it in one lifetime? And how could Jormund and Willas even _think_ of betting that much money? It was madness to him.

"Well, they didn't sound confident in me ..." he whispered in dismay. "I mean, what better things could they do with two hundred septims? How many horses could that buy? What about food and fine clothing? I suppose Jouane or Rorik would know ... perhaps I could ask them."

Erik stared up at the beams of the inn ceiling, letting his mind race in the darkness.

"If I was the Dragonborn ..."

He entertained the thought. His father used to tell him all sorts of tales when he was a child, of great heroes and warriors of old. The legend of the Dragonborn had been his favourite. He remembered an old song that his father used to sing. Mralki didn't have much of a melodic voice, but the words were legendary to Erik nonetheless when his father sang it.

Humming the tune, Erik murmured quietly, "Our hero, our hero claims our warriors' hearts ..."

He ended with prolonged silence, listening for the winds out in the fields.

"What if I do meet him ..." The whispered words sent a chill down his spine. "He's practically a god... like Talos. What would he ever have to say to a boy as green as me?" Erik frowned at the thought. "I'm no boy ... I'm a man grown. I'll spar and hunt with Willas and Jormund for as long as they let me ... I'll be stronger. I'll find the Dragonborn." He recalled Willas's words with a scowl. "_If_ the legends are true."

Erik hardly slept a wink, preoccupied as he was with a sudden fantasy of a tall warrior in dragon scale armour, riding in from the east on a stallion white as snow. He fell asleep dreaming of flight, soaring above the mountains, perched on opalescent scales as hard and cold as stone.

* * *

"If I can't leave Rorikstead," Erik grunted, pulling on the root of a ripe cabbage, "_how_ am I supposed to find the Dragonborn?"

Willas and Jormund shrugged from where they were comfortably seated on a fence, watching him labour underneath the mid afternoon sun. After spending most of his time hunting and sparring with the two, Erik had been reprimanded thoroughly by his father. His regular tasks of tending the farm and cleaning the inn had been shamelessly neglected over the past two weeks and Mralki had finally lost patience. Erik was left with no choice but to do his father's bidding and finally attended to his duties.

"Are you two just going to stand there? I don't see why neither of you are helping," Erik called out to the hunters.

Jormund smiled, "We've already done our hunting for the day! Don't you think we've performed our village duties already?"

"Unlike some people," Willas muttered underneath his breath.

Erik scowled. "I heard that." Hoisting a basket of cabbages into his arms, he moved on to the next row.

"Ah, cheer up," Ennis spoke as he too pulled cabbages out of the soil. "We'll be done in no time and the harvest is already here. A few more days of this and our farming will be done until the spring. Truth be told, I'm glad for those hunters. Them staying here means that we'll have some coin flowing even in the winter."

"I'm surprised they stayed this long ..." Erik muttered, almost to himself. "I keep asking them if and when they'll head off, but it's always 'Perhaps tomorrow,' or 'We still have our bet to win!' and even, 'But you _still_ have to beat me at the sword.' It's never a straight answer ..."

"You two hens gossiping about us over there?" Jormund shouted from the fence.

Ennis shouted back, "Erik here says you whupped his arse seven ways to Sundas!"

"He did _not_."

"No, but _I_ did," Willas grinned.

Ennis joined Jormund and Willas in their laughter. Erik huffed, tempted to chuck a head of cabbage at each of them.

"Just you wait, Willas!" Erik turned his head up to the sky and hollered at the top of his lungs, "I WILL BE THE BEST WARRIOR THIS ERA HAS EVER SEEN AND I WILL BEAT WILLAS WITH HIS OWN WOODEN SWORD."

Jormund nearly toppled over the fence as his chest heaved with laughter and even Willas was smiling. "I should be honoured," the young hunter said. "I'm quite high on your list of priorities."

Erik's grin was bright. "A warrior is nothing without a worthy opponent."

"As amusing as you all are," Ennis said as he squatted down to the earth, "we still have to get this done before nightfall."

There was a loud clap of what sounded like thunder, rolling in from the east. Everyone except Jormund jumped in their skins, eyes darting wildly to the clear skies.

**DOVAHKIIN**.

The earth seemed to shake as the roar echoed from above. And as abruptly as it came, it dissolved into silence, giving way once more to the song of birds and the whisper of the breeze.

"What in Oblivion?" Willas hissed. He had his knife out, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle.

Erik's heart threatened to tear itself out of his chest with its frantic beating. He willed his blood to slow so that the ringing in his ears would cease. Glancing around, he saw the same panic-stricken look on Willas and Ennis. Jormund looked strangely calm and solemn, his eyes lingering on the sky.

Erik felt his voice crack. "Could it be ..."

"_Gods_, _no._" Ennis's broken whisper could have shaken the spirit of any man.

All of them watched the skies, terrified of what would come from beyond the eastern horizon. Erik felt naked—he had no sword, not even so much as an iron breastplate or a helmet. His heart felt like it might burst with fear. He felt like a coward, the way his courage seemed to melt like frost touched by flame. His ears listened for the sound of wings churning the winds into hot smoke.

The inn door burst open with an ear-splitting bang. All eyes turned to Mralki, who ran out into the road with his steel war hammer, his face drained of colour, eyes trained on the sky.

"Quickly everyone!" he barked. "Inside the inn. _Hurry_."

Without a second thought, everyone abandoned the field in a mad sprint. Erik could see his basket of cabbages tumbling over, green heads rolling in the dirt beneath his feet. The thundering of his blood didn't cease even as the the last of the villagers were crammed into the inn, the door barred with booming finality.

Everyone was deathly silent as they listened to the world beyond the walls. Erik felt like they waited for hours, hunched close to the burning fire, everyone too frightened to make a sound. For a long time, they heard nothing.

Jormund's voice was like a whip when he finally dared to speak.

"So it's true."

All of the villagers' heads snapped to look at him. Erik saw their eyes, how they were glazed with numbing fear. But Jormund's brown irises were hard as steel, unbending in the cloying silence.

"He really has come ..." Jormund glanced at all of them, his lips breaking out in the slowest of hopeful smiles. "Our saviour has _come_."

Erik swallowed past the lump in his throat. "You mean, the Dragonborn? How ... how do you know that, Jormund?"

The older man was silent as he looked at Erik, then faced east. His brown eyes were bright with recognition. "The roaring we heard—that was no dragon." Jormund smiled at Erik, at all the village people. "It was the call of the Greybeards atop High Hrothgar. They have summoned the Dragonborn at long last. Which means the legend is true. The prophecy is fulfilled."

* * *

Over the next few days, whenever he was outside either hunting or working the soil, Erik caught his gaze lingering towards the east. He greeted each sunshine with wide blue eyes, watching the world awaken with a renewed sense of hope.

_The Dragonborn has come. He's in High Hrothgar, learning the way of the Voice._

Jormund told him that. The old hunter knew so much of the legend, but when Erik asked how he came by his knowledge, Jormund merely smiled and chuckled, "Every old Nord knows the tale, lad." Unsatisfied with his explanation, Erik relentlessly pestered Jormund for story after tale after legend about the mysterious hero. The old man was indulgent, sharing his knowledge with Erik, but was still stubbornly tight-lipped about why he himself knew so much. On one of their predawn hunts out in the eastern fields, Erik finally decided to ask Willas instead.

"Say, Willas ..." Erik whispered to his fair companion. "Has Jormund always been so mysterious? I mean, have you ever wondered why he has superior skill at the sword for a hunter? And just the other day I spied him by the latrines with a _book_. Who's ever heard of a _literate_ hunter? And if you think about it, all his expertise on old legends and the like—that must mean he's well-read. It's strange, Willas, I'm telling you. Haven't you ever wondered?"

Willas raised his brows, momentarily abandoning his watch of the western side of the field to glance at Erik. Jormund was further east, hidden behind shrubbery a few yards away from them. Willas and Erik on the other hand were crouched down in the tall grass.

"I don't make it my business to pry into his past," Willas muttered.

"But you _must_ be curious."

"Of course I am," Willas snapped. "But that doesn't mean I'll be poking my nose where it doesn't belong. All I know is that he's mentored me, and for the past half decade we've stood as equals. That's all the explanation I need."

Erik felt an argument rising in his throat but the sudden tension in Willas's shoulders silenced him. Eyes swivelling to the distance, he could see the grass quivering in the darkness. Then he heard the growls.

Quick as lightning, Willas let loose an arrow. Erik heard it burying deep into flesh as he pulled out a borrowed knife.

The wolves leaped at them, their snarling maws frothing with spittle.

Willas lost no time sinking more arrows into the dark beasts.

Erik lunged forward, his mind a blank, colliding with a tangle of strong limbs. He grabbed onto the wolf's thick neck. Thrusting his knife into fur, he felt warm wetness pouring onto his palms. He stabbed at the wolf again, aiming for its throat. The animal slumped to the ground with a whine.

More were jumping out from from the tall grass.

Erik could hear Willas and Jormund letting their arrows fly. Wolves began dropping left and right.

The wind was knocked out of him as large paws hit his chest. His back hit the ground. Gasping for air Erik scrambled to stab upward with his knife. He could feel the hot, moist breathe in front of his face, the bared fangs, the vile slaver dripping on his cheeks.

Everything seemed to slow as the world became muted. Erik gazed up at the gold eyes boring into him. He felt the wolf lunge.

There was a sharp whistle.

Erik's eyes widened as hot blood sprayed across his face. He barely caught sight of the shaft lodged through the back of the wolf's skull, a dark arrowhead jutting out of where its right eye had been. It fell motionlessly on top of him.

Scrambling out from underneath it, Erik felt his body shaking. Rough hands hoisted him up to stand on his ungainly legs. He stared down at the dead wolf. The arrow that killed it had fletchings black as raven wings. Willas and Jormund's arrows were fletched with brown hawk feathers.

He felt the thundering of hooves. Erik looked up as Willas's hands tightened around his arms.

A rider was approaching fast from the east atop a black destrier. A thick cloak of pale wolf fur hung down from the rider's shoulder, draped over the muscled rump of the horse. Gloved hands grasped the leather reigns of the giant steed, in the other a great bow of ebony.

Erik stared transfixed as the large horse drew up to a steady halt in front of them.

A hooded face cast a sweeping glance at him and his company. The rider fixed the ebony bow to a strap, bringing up long fingers to pull down the fur hood.

Erik once again met a pair of golden amber eyes.

The young woman had a face framed by long braided hair, black as the darkest night. Her smooth pale gold skin, high cheekbones, and pointed nose told Erik she was a Nord. Her pressing stare felt as unwavering as mountaintops.

"Are you hurt?"

Her voice was deep. Erik thought she sounded worried.

Willas and Jormund were eerily silent behind him. Erik tried to muster up the will to speak. But before he could stutter out a word, the thundering of hooves sounded in the distance.

A column of riders emerged from beyond the eastern hill, following the young woman's path before them. At the head of the formation was a female Nord warrior with short brown hair, dressed in steel plate armour. Behind her were two soldiers holding tall poles with bolts of silvery white cloth bearing the symbol of a golden stallion—the banners of Whiterun.

Erik stood breathless, watching as the Nord warrior called the formation to a halt before them. She rode up next to the young woman in the fur coat, dipping her chin in a low nod.

"With all due respect, my lady, it isn't wise to race ahead of the scouts." Her tone was chiding and stern.

There was a flicker of shame in those amber eyes. "My apologies, Lydia. I heard a commotion and rushed off. These men were attacked by a pack of wolves—it looks like they finished off the beasts before we rode into the field. We've been blessed by a stroke of luck today."

The warrior named Lydia looked over at Erik and the hunters. "You have the thanks of her ladyship, Lanre Solveig, Thane of Whiterun."

Erik gazed up at the one called Lanre Solveig. She was the thane? Should he bow? Willas and Jormund had yet to speak or move. It made Erik more nervous. He settled for a stiff nod.

The Thane of Whiterun addressed them with a warm smile. "You spared us an awful surprise. For that, truly, you have my sincerest gratitude. If there is anything within my power to grant you, I would be happy to oblige."

"My lady, we should continue onward to Rorikstead."

Lanre Solveig nodded, pulling on the reins of her destrier. With a bow to Erik and his company, she rode off, heading west. Lydia followed swiftly, the column of soldiers—Erik counted twenty—leaving a trail of dust behind them.

Erik watched as the procession grew smaller in the distance. When the banners were out of sight, he felt his foot step forward. Feeling breathless, he took another step. Before he knew it, he was sprinting west towards home, running from the sunrise, leaving Willas and Jormund surrounded by wolf carcasses.

* * *

_Writer's Note: I absolutely love Erik. He pretty much writes himself :) I hope the story is finally picking up._

_If you're still reading up until this point, thank you very much! Until next time._


	4. Chapter Three: Vahriin Ahmik

Writer's note: It usually doesn't take me this long between updates, and I am sorry D: I am bad, and I should feel bad (ugly crying). I'm the loser who decided to start writing this story during finals.

Other than that, it took me this long because I've had to edit my previous chapters. I didn't make any big changes, only the following:

A) I made the prologue shorter (by like, a lot, mostly to take out my purple prose, orz I am sorry)

B) I made Erik younger. Now he's 17, making his naivety seem more plausible (and also he's now the same age as Willas and Lanre).

C) I changed the hunting scene. Thanks to some very sound advice, I now know that when hunting an animal, you aim for the heart. It kills them much faster and more humanely without spoiling the meat, rather than aiming for the neck. Even if a deer is pierced through the neck with an arrow, it can still run away, trailing blood behind it ... it's a bloody business, so _aim for the heart_.

Those are the only big changes I've made. It's also worth noting that I will deviate from the in-game storyline quite a bit, to make the story more surprising and entertaining :)

Happy reading, everyone! Here's the longest chapter to date.

* * *

_Hahnu Do Keizal_

by Toasted Panic

_Chapter Three_

_Vahriin Ahmik_

_(Sworn Service)_

A soldier at the head of the column blasted a horn three times as the thane's entourage approached Rorikstead at sunrise. Hooves kicked up the dirt, thunder rolling on the earth, stirring a low cloud of dust along the road. At the head of the procession, Lanre Solveig and her housecarl came to a stop by the edge of the village, the warrior holding up a clenched fist high in the air. The rest of the column gathered to a slow halt behind them.

The people of Rorikstead ceased their fieldwork to stare openly at the line of mounted soldiers. Their wary eyes lingered on the thane garbed with thick wolf's fur and the imposing warrior at her side. More people began to trickle out of the houses, watching the proceedings at the sides of the road.

Lydia nodded to the soldier with the horn. He sounded three long blasts that swept out over the western plains. Lydia's firm voice followed, carrying through the village.

"Announcing the arrival of her ladyship, Lanre Solveig, Thane of Whiterun, Right Hand and Servant of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater."

Urging her black destrier a few steps forward, Lanre swept her eyes over the timid faces of the villagers. "Good people of Rorikstead," she called out, "I come bearing news and gifts of good will in the name of our honourable jarl. As your newly appointed thane, it is my duty and great privilege to come here in his name and present his people with the bounty of Whiterun's harvest." Lanre raised an open palm, motioning forward to a pair of her riders.

The column behind them parted to make way for two horse-drawn wagons covered with fine netting. The first was loaded with bushels upon bushels of wheat, wicker baskets piled with potatoes, and clay jars of honey, fermented milk, and spices. The second was filled with baskets of scarlet apples and golden pears among caskets of wine and mead. The wagons rolled to a halt a few paces ahead of Lanre, stopping just in front of Frostfruit Inn.

Lanre extended a shallow bow of her head towards the people. With a sense of finality, she called out once more, "May these gifts see you in the coming winter months." She turned to a pair of soldiers, gesturing them forward. "See to the distribution and help unload the waggons. The rest of you—we set up camp on the western side of Rorikstead."

"By your orders, my thane."

Lydia raised her hand high and motioned ahead.

The soldiers urged their steeds onward, with the thane and her black destrier leading them.

* * *

When Erik finally reached the village, the sun had risen low above the horizon.

He felt as though his lungs would burst. He ran as fast as he could, unmindful of Willas and Jormund shouting after him. But something powerful had urged him on, spurring his legs forward with the wind at his heels, determined to catch sight of those silvery banners. And now that he was at the village, he didn't know why he'd been so desperate to catch up with the procession of soldiers.

"What in gods' names has gotten into me ..." he panted, resisting the urge to cast up his breakfast.

"Erik!"

Willas came up behind him, huffing angrily, his face blotchy and red. "For the love of _Talos—_have you lost your mind? Why did you run off like that?"

Swivelling around, Erik stuttered, at a loss. "I-I just ... the banners ... and the thane ... Willas, what's the matter?" Wondering what Willas was gawking at, Erik turned around to look down the road.

Rorikstead had never bustled with so much activity before.

He saw two large wagons in front of the inn, loaded with an impossible amount of food—more than enough to see them through two winters without a worry. More Whiterun soldiers were wandering through the village than usual, and two of them were helping unload the wagons. Ennis, Reldith, and Mralki were carrying baskets into the inn.

Erik gasped as he caught sight of the billowing flags in the distance, the golden stallion of Whiterun soaring in the morning breeze. Down the road, a small camp had been raised. Brown tents were beginning to litter the field, soldiers tending to them, driving strong wooden poles into the ground, raising tarps, gathering wood, sharpening swords, stoking fires. In the middle of the cluster was a larger tent, silvery with gold stripes, standing as tall as the inn. The gold stallion high fluttered above it, impossibly bright in the morning sun. At its entrance, it bore the same banners with two soldiers standing guard on either side.

"What is happening ..." Erik muttered underneath his breath.

"ERIK."

Mralki's shout jerked Erik out of his stunned reverie. He was suddenly aware of the wolf blood crusting up in his clothes and hair.

"Father—" Erik winced, "—I can explain."

"Dear _gods_." Mralki's face was pale as he rushed to his son, grasping Erik firmly by the shoulders. He turned Erik this way and that, looking him over with alarm. Turning on Willas, Mralki's eyes were filled with fire "What _happened_?"

Scowling, Willas looked ready to spit back a scathing retort.

"A hunt gone awry," Jormund called out upon finally arriving in the nick of time.

Mralki gestured angrily at his son. "Endangering him like this—this ... this is _unacceptable_."

"I'm unhurt," Erik blurted out stiffly. "It's alright, father. I'm fine. See? No wounds, no scratches—I'm _unharmed_."

Mralki shot Erik a stern gaze.

"Your boy's unharmed, Mralki," Jormund intervened, his tone calm. "He startled when cutting a deer's neck—the animal wasn't quite dead yet and it put up a struggle. The killing got messy."

Turning to Erik, Mralki narrowed his eyes. "Is this true, Erik?"

"Yes, father."

Erik clenched his fists. He could feel Jormund's stare piercing through him. Forcing the words from between his teeth, he added, "I hesitated and mucked it up—the meat was spoiled and I managed to mangle the pelt, too, so we couldn't bring it back ..."

"Mralki!" Ennis bellowed from the inn porch. "We'll need your help carrying in the rest of these jars—you lads as well."

Mralki frowned at Erik. "We'll speak more later." He headed off to help unload the last wagon, his shoulders rigid.

Erik paled. Before he could follow, he felt Jormund's firm grip on his arm. Turning around, he met the old hunter's gaze. There was a sadness in his wrinkled brown eyes.

"That's the last time I'll lie to your father like that, Erik," he said softly. "Speak to him more frankly from now on—maybe then he won't treat you like a child."

Erik's nod felt wooden. "I-I understand, Jormund. I'm sorry ..."

"Kind as you are, lad, your apology is misplaced."

Jormund walked past him to head to the wagons. Willas followed, casting a hesitant glance at Erik over his shoulder.

Erik cursed himself as he stood alone. _Stupid_, he thought shamefully. _Think before you act, you foolish boy_. He followed his friends, his shoulder slumped.

They helped gather and organize the winter rations in the inn cellar. Mralki took inventory while the last of the jars of spices were brought down by the soldiers. When the men in armour left the cellar to help set up camp, Willas cast a baleful look around the packed room.

"You're telling me that some noble from Whiterun rode all the way out here to deliver these goods?" He scoffed. "An extravagant courier, if I've ever heard of one. What kind of favours does she think to curry in this part of the world? And what about the entourage she brought with her? What of that?"

Ennis shrugged, gazing at their stock of food with wonder. "One of the soldiers told me that Thane Solveig did the same in Riverwood before they made the journey here. She presented the villagers with the jarl's gifts and saw to strengthening their garrison with more soldiers—her entourage is meant to stay here in Rorikstead. The jarl wants to fortify the Whiterun settlements." The Redguard's expression turned dour. "A dragon attacked the capital."

His news was met with astonished, cold silence.

"Hush," Mralki muttered, shaking his head. "Before we let worry take us, let's first have some bread and stew. No one should have to listen to bad news before a meal."

They all nodded solemnly and ventured upstairs.

While Mralki and Reldith busied themselves over a cooking pot of beef stew, the others gathered around a table, soon joined by Jouane and Rorik. They all whispered to themselves about the sudden arrival of the thane's party and news of Whiterun.

"You said Whiterun was attacked ..." Erik murmured to Ennis. "What happened? Was anyone hurt?"

To Erik's surprise, Ennis's expression brightened.

"No, thank the gods. Everyone was unharmed. Because—well, I wouldn't have believed it myself, except all the soldiers seem to agree." He looked up at everyone, eyes shining. "They say the Dragonborn appeared—in the _flesh_, the great hero himself."

Erik felt his heart leap. "It's all true," he gasped, unable to stop a smile from blooming on his face. "He's _real_."

Ennis nodded avidly. "When the dragon attacked the western watch tower, all the guards say he appeared out of nowhere—leaping onto the field in clear sight of the dragon, wielding nothing more than a steel blade. The proud beast thought it could have beaten him on the ground—what a mistake for it to land! The Dragonborn cut up its wings and stabbed the creature in the heart—all eyes who saw the battle swore he moved faster than a whip.

"The curious part," Ennis dropped his tone, low and almost imperceptible, "was when the dragon died. All the soldiers swear up and down, on the graves of their ancestors, and on the halls of Sovngarde—when dragon was stabbed in the heart, the beast's flesh burned right off its bone, leaving nothing but a terrifying skeleton. The bright flames from the fire seemed to engulf the Dragonborn—it looked like the dragon's dying light was being _absorbed_."

Lemkil snorted. "They're all _mad_."

"It's true!" Erik cried fiercely, slamming his fists on the table. "He's _real_, I tell you. As real as you and I! Ennis—did the guards tell you—what did he look like? Is he a Nord? Oh, what am I saying—of _course_ he is! Isn't he?"

"You're an utter fool for believing anything you hear," Lemkil mocked.

Ennis shook his head with a disappointed frown. "That's the funny thing. Nobody knows what he looks like."

Erik deflated visibly, his bright smile wavering.

"Throughout the entire battle, the Dragonborn had his face covered. The only thing the soldiers said for sure was that he was tall. He ran off towards Whiterun before anyone could even shout 'Dragonborn!'"

Jouane hummed curiously to himself. "Whoever this Dragonborn is, he sounds like he wants to keep his identity to himself. Odd fellow."

Erik let out a frustrated cry. "But I _need_ to know who he is."

Before anyone could ask what that meant, the inn door swivelled open. They all turned to see the arrival of the thane's housecarl. The woman shut the door behind her, striding towards them. Her face was void of expression when she said, "I am looking for the man in charge of the village. Rorik."

Rorik stood from his seat, his fine clothes fluttering with his movement. "I would be Rorik."

Nodding, the woman continued in her soldierly tone, "My lady extends an invitation that you dine with her in the camp for breakfast."

Rorik hesitated. "I don't mean to be rude ... but if you've got some business in Rorikstead, you should start by speaking to Jouane. I'm afraid I lost my charm years ago—simple commoner's talk is unfit company for nobility."

Jouane stood from his seat obligingly. He smiled at the dark haired woman. "I would be happy to go in Rorik's place."

"Thane Solveig requested for Rorik specifically." The warrior left no room for argument. "But if you wish to accompany him, you are free to do so. She expects your presence within the hour." Without another word, she turned on her heel and stepped outside the inn.

Rorik sighed, glancing wearily at Jouane. "By invitation, I should have guessed she meant 'summons.'"

"Come now, old friend," Jouane chided gently, leading the way out. "What's a game of politics now and then? I'm sure my lady only wishes to be thanked for her graciousness in personally bringing Balgruuf's gifts."

* * *

Lanre glanced up from her reading as Lydia returned to the tent. Closing the book, she rose from her seat and stood in front of a tall mirror.

"Tell me, Lydia," Lanre spoke as her housecarl came up behind her to undo the straps and belts of her ebony armour. "What do you know of the Dark Brotherhood?"

Lanre caught Lydia's frown in the reflection. "Only that they've dwindled into nothing but vile whispers. Their history is riddled with all sorts of unsavoury deeds—it makes the flesh crawl to think about such things."

Glancing surreptitiously at the faded black tome on her table, Lanre nodded as Lydia unfastened her gauntlets, leaving her in a wool tunic and trousers. "What man has ever feared vile whispers," she murmured, striding to where her furs were draped over a chair.

Lydia frowned. "Any man with power, my thane."

Lanre could feel Lydia watching her as she donned her wolf coat, fastening the steel chain clasp across her chest. She savoured the warmth as she approached the long wooden table by two roaring braziers. It was laden with silver plates of apples coated in honey and spices, pears turned red for bathing in wine, golden rolls of soft baked bread, steaming potato soup, rich and creamy, glimmering tankards of spiced wine, and slices of crisp smoked ham and bacon. Taking her seat at the head of the table, she watched the opening of the tent.

"You've extended my invitation?" she asked Lydia.

The warrior nodded. "Yes, my thane. Rorik's answer was indecisive. He seemed far from eager to attend. I believe his old friend Jouane Manette will convince him. If that's the case, both of them will likely dine with you, my lady."

Nodding thoughtfully, Lanre leaned back in her seat, resisting the urge to rub at her tired eyes. The journey from Riverwood, although graciously uneventful, had been long and harrowing. "If only our messenger hadn't gotten 'lost' on his way here—maybe our arrival wouldn't have come as such a surprise. That's the last time I send _one_ man to do the job." When they found their young messenger intoxicated five miles out of Rorikstead, his clothes stinking of Moon Sugar as he babbled about the beauty of Secundas, Lanre had been far from pleased. The lad had been demoted to peeling potatoes for two weeks while the rest of his brothers and sisters at arms were doing their soldierly duties.

"I haven't quite decided if the war veterans of this village will make my mission harder or more rewarding," Lanre pondered aloud as she poured herself a cup of wine. "Jarl Balgruuf has expended much on these two journeys. Riverwood was a success. But Rorikstead remains the true prize this close to the Reach."

"If I may speak frankly, my lady?"

Glancing up at her companion, Lanre nodded.

Lydia hesitated before continuing, "I am your sworn shield and sword—your confidence is my honour to keep. My life is yours in service. However, my lady ... I mean no disrespect ..."

"My dear friend," Lanre spoke softly. "Say what you wish. I've promised time and again to heed your counsel."

Lydia's brown eyes were solemn as she spoke. "My lady, it's rash to attempt things of this nature during such troubling times. Jarl Balgruuf has made great pains to keep his part out of the civil war. The caution of the people of Rorikstead is not misplaced. If the other jarls hear of your military party so close to the Reach—and they will—it would be natural for suspicion to arise."

Lanre listened carefully. For a while, she let Lydia's words hang in the air, ringing high with ominous truth.

"I know this," she spoke gravely. "Believe me, my friend. It occurred to me. Balgruuf voiced the very same objections. But Ulfric Stormcloak isn't the only opportunist schemer in the realm." Her eyes were cold as she sipped from a silver wine cup. "How unkind would it be of the other jarls—to assume ill of Balgruuf for wanting to protect his people." Lanre smiled easily at Lydia. "Food for the coming winter. Soldiers to guard against the dragon threat. Neither of those things appear so unreasonable. Even a man like Ulfric wouldn't have the gall to spin that into a baldfaced lie."

Lydia frowned doubtfully. "My lady says this of a man who murdered the High King."

Lanre's laugh was humourless.

One of the guards stepped inside the tent, extending a salute—his right fist over his left breast. "My thane, Rorik has arrived with his friend Jouane Manette."

"Good. Send them in."

Lanre stood as the Nord and his Breton companion stepped inside, both garbed in sets of fine clothes, their faces careful masks of courteous smiles. She smiled back, extending a hand to the table setting.

"Well met, friends. Please, have a seat. It's a pleasure to have you here with us."

Lanre took her seat at the head of the table, with Lydia standing at her side. Rorik nodded with murmured thanks, taking the seat at Lanre's right. Jouane sat across from him at her left, visibly more at ease as he made conversation.

"The pleasure is all ours, my thane," he said brightly. "It's not often that our humble village is graced by the nobility. The people of Rorikstead wish to extend their thanks to the jarl. I would ask that their gratitude be passed along. But your arrival came as a surprise to us—an enjoyable one, of course."

Laughing, Lanre told herself to pay close attention to the Breton. "I do apologize for our sudden intrusion. I intended for a messenger to travel ahead of us, but the boy was waylaid on the road."

"By the gods—is he alright?"

"Yes, he's well. Praise the gods." Lanre poured Jouane and Rorik some wine. She poured herself more from the same tankard and drank first. The two men then sipped from their own cups. "I'm afraid we weren't willing to spare another man to ride forward to tell you of our arrival. The roads are treacherous these days. I apologize again for the lack of warning. I hope we haven't inconvenienced you."

"Not at all, my thane," Jouane said cheerfully. "With the disturbing news of dragons in Whiterun, your soldiers are a welcome sight in our village."

Lanre gave him a gracious nod. "Rorikstead will be a place of sanctuary in the winter, that I can trust."

"With all due respect, my thane, dallying small talk has never agreed with me," Rorik abruptly spoke. "I hope my bluntness will not be mistaken for discourtesy. But the nobility of Whiterun haven't seen fit to trouble themselves over the smallfolk in these past few years. It makes me question your intentions behind paying us a visit."

Astonished, Jouane glanced at Rorik and then turned to Lanre, "My thane—what he means is—"

Lanre shook her head, silencing him. She kept her eyes on Rorik, her formal smile vanishing. "It's not at all unreasonable to wonder why a thane of Whiterun would be out here in the country," she said quietly. "I take no offence. My reasons for coming here are not strictly hold business—I have personal causes."

Lanre reached into her coat.

Rorik and Jouane tensed.

She withdrew something and placed it on the table with a wooden clack.

Rorik's eyes widened. His expression fixed in utter disbelief, he picked up the familiar amulet of Akatosh.

"By the Nine ... this is ..."

Lanre's gaze was solemn as she watched the amulet dangling in the air. "I understand that Lokir was from this village. He was one of those who perished in Helgen when the dragon attacked. I couldn't manage to bring his remains back here—this amulet is all that was left of him."

Jouane stared at the amulet, his hand over his mouth.

Rorik's fist tightened over the wooden beads. "Lokir disappeared from the village a few months ago. He ran off quite often ... but he always came back." Looking up at Lanre, Rorik narrowed his eyes. She could see sorrow. "Why would you do this? How did you know Lokir?"

Lanre's amber eyes met Rorik's gaze, solemnly determined. "A man once told me that a Nord's last thoughts should be of home. While my acquaintance with him was brief, I believe Lokir desired nothing more than to come back here to Rorikstead. If I have brought any ill will with this act, I apologize. But I would not deny Lokir a marked grave in his own land. Ultimately, however, the decision is in your hands."

Rorik looked away, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the amulet in his fist.

Lanre contemplated leaving him and Jouane to mourn. She chose to wait a few moments, quietly observing the two men. Rorik was unnervingly still. It seemed like his very breath had ceased, had it not been for the slight trembling of his hands. Jouane watched his old friend, worry and grief creasing the worn lines of his brown face.

After a few more heartbeats, Lanre stood from her seat.

"I'm afraid I've been too forward ..." she whispered. "Pardon me. I will leave you to grieve."

Lanre took no more than two paces away from the table before Rorik uttered words so quiet, she had to strain to hear him.

"Was it a quick death?"

Turning around, Lanre watched the back of Rorik's head with piercing eyes. "Swift and painless."

She watched his shoulders heave, relieved of a leaden sigh.

"Praise Talos. May he rest in Sovngarde."

His whisper was raspy and watery.

* * *

Erik watched the thane's soldiers assemble the pyre from wood they gathered in the forest. It was small, heaped on a makeshift platform no taller than he was. The ground around it was filled in a circular mound with earth, surrounded by stones to keep the fire from spreading.

When the rest of the villagers received the news of Lokir's death from Jouane, everyone was stunned. For the past few weeks, they all expected him to wander back into the village with a tall tale or two. Now, in the place of that was the humble funeral pyre before them.

On the outskirts of Rorikstead by the camp, the villagers gathered in a circle around the pile of wood, joined by a number of soldiers and the thane's guard, with none other than Lanre Solveig herself. Erik caught glimpses of her from time to time in the dim torch light. It wasn't often that he saw women of his age in Rorikstead.

She was tall for a woman, easily of a height with Erik. Her white wolf cloak was draped around her. Erik couldn't see the armour she wore, nor did he know if there was a sword strapped at her hip.

Rorik and Jouane had been gone longer than expected when the thane summoned them to her quarters for breakfast. They stayed until midday, but when the two men emerged from the tent, Lanre wasn't with them. She kept to herself, only emerging when it was time to send Lokir's spirit to Sovngarde. It was the second time Erik saw her that day.

In the absence of a priest, Rorik had been appointed to recite the funeral rites.

In his right hand, he held a glowing torch. Approaching the pyre, he began.

"I call on the blessings of the Nine Divines. Akatosh. Kynareth. Mara. Dibella. Julianos. Stendarr. Zenithar. Arkay. Talos. Shine your guiding lights upon the realm of men. We beseech you in this hour to usher the spirit of Lokir into your hallowed halls. Bless him that he may find you in eternal rest."

Rorik pulled out a wooden amulet from his coat pocket. He placed it gently on top of the funeral pyre.

"May we meet him in the halls of Sovngarde."

The rest of them recited the words back

Jouane handed a jar of oil to Rorik. He poured the golden liquid over the wood, letting it trickle down the logs and sticks. Erik could smell its musky fragrance, earthy and powerful. Rorik raised the torch, then dipped it down. The flames touched the pyre and lit the night with a glow as red and bright as sunset.

Erik looked through the tongues of fire and saw Lanre's face illuminated. His heart thrummed in his chest. He watched her as she gazed into the flames, her amber eyes distant. He could feel a rush of warmth as the flames grew larger.

_Look away_, he berated himself. _It's not polite to stare. The thane wouldn't take well to it._

His eyes swept over her jet black hair, her skin orange in the light. Her eyes seemed far away. She looked just like he pictured a Nord noble would look. Her smooth skin showed no sign of age or hard labour, her well kept hair glossy and brushed clean. He wondered if her hands would be as rough as his, if the soles of her feet would be calloused, if she knew how the sun felt behind your neck after a day in the field.

_Probably not._

She looked up straight through the flames to catch him staring.

Erik turned red and whipped around as Willas handed him a bottle of mead.

As drink flowed freely from the Frostfruit Inn cellar, soldiers and villagers alike began making slurred toasts around the roaring pyre in the middle of the camp.

"Gods bless Lacquer's departed soul—"

"It's _Lokir_," Ennis groaned, leaning against the soldier.

She shrugged. "Gods bless Lokir's departed soul—Brother! May we find you in the afterlife!"

The rest of them shouted "Brother!" and toasted for the umpteenth time that night.

Erik was sitting on a makeshift bench with Willlas, the two of them watching the festivities. They passed a bottle of mead between them. Erik felt warm. Willas was drinking faster, slipping further into intoxication, more prone to saying odd things in his drunken haze.

"Aye, _gods_, do you think every night in Rorikstead is gonna be like this? Looks like Jormund and I made the right choice to stay after all."

Erik frowned, holding onto the bottle of mead a little longer. "Well, eventually they'll have to go about and, you know, _guard_."

"Look at that, Erik. You're not as dumb as a sack of potatoes after all."

Erik scowled and was about to call Willas a crude word he heard one of the soldiers shouting earlier. A glimpse of pale wolf fur caught his eye in the dark distance. He turned his gaze to see the thane wandering out of the firelight into the village proper.

Clumsily, he pushed the mead bottle into Willas's hands and scrambled to his feet.

"Erik, I meant that _endearingly_. Don't go running off to cry, now!"

Erik weaved his way through the crowd of people, their merry song and banter a blur of cheer in the cool night air. The further he wandered down the road, the quieter and colder it seemed to get. When he reached the wheat fields, the camp became nothing but a distant murmur in the west. Facing east, Erik scanned the fields, searching for the wandering thane.

He spotted her by the edge of the wheat field fence, standing by herself, looking up at the starry sky. A part of him thought this was madness, but he continued onward, deaf to his own reason. For as much as his own mind seemed to argue with him, a much larger part of himself urged him onward.

_Lanre Solveig_, he whispered in his thoughts. Her eyes at dawn had not left him at all that day. His belly felt warm—kindled with drink, Erik told himself. His unwavering gaze on her back told him it was all reckless foolishness.

_She'll think me a stupid boy. She'll see how I'm weak._

He was close now, close enough so that the crunching of the ground beneath his feet was loud in the air.

She turned around, imperious amber gaze locked on him.

Erik froze, blue eyes wide as plates.

He waited for her to berate him, to ask him why he was there. He was almost sure that the thane would send him away with a scoff—anyone of noble blood wouldn't stoop to speak to a common farmer like him.

"You're not one of my soldiers, are you?"

She sounded confused instead.

Erik stammered, "N-No, m'lady. I'm not one of your soldiers."

Nodding in understanding, Lanre turned away from him to gaze up at the sky. "Then I suppose you can wander wherever you wish. Only my select few are keeping their watch tonight. The rest are making merry."

"I see," Erik muttered, trying not to stutter. How foolish he must look in front of her. "Aren't you worried at all that they're not ... guarding the roads? M'lady?" Erik clumsily tacked on the title as an afterthought.

The thane, unperturbed by his bumbling, shook her head. "My housecarl and I made sure to send scouts around the fields before the funeral. We can throw caution to the wind, but only for tonight. There's no harm in their merriment."

"But what about dragons?" Erik blurted out.

Her silence lingered after his question. The longer it hung in the air, the more Erik cursed himself for an oaf.

"M-My thane—m'lady, my _apologies_. I shouldn't question you—it's not my place. Such a common farmer like me, of course I wouldn't know—"

Erik paused when he heard her tinkling laughter. It was soft, but loud enough for him to hear and have his ears turn red.

"I wish you wouldn't mock me."

Lanre's laughter ceased. She turned around to stare at him, amber eyes wide, and Erik felt the colour drain from his face.

"W-What I meant was," he swallowed past a lump in his throat, "although I'm lowborn, m'lady, I take offense same as anybody else."

Lanre surprised him when her voice came out soft and kind, "Forgive me. I hadn't meant to sound mocking. I was caught off guard." Erik felt the smile in her words. "No one dares to speak so boldly to me."

"It's not boldness, m'lady," Erik muttered, feeling heat creeping up his neck. "I just don't think so well before I speak. Lemkil says I'm dumb as a sack of potatoes."

Lanre laughed again, and this time Erik felt his heart leap into his throat. She said nothing in reply, letting her laughter fade as she strode forward. Erik was afraid that she thought him too simple and dull to continue speaking with him.

She sat on the grass ahead, casting a backwards glance to Erik over her shoulder. "Will you be joining the others now?" she asked him.

Was she sending him away? Erik wasn't sure.

"N-No, m'lady."

"Would you have a seat next to me, then?"

Erik felt a wide smile run away with his lips before he could think twice. His nod felt jerky as he moved his legs forward, each step perilously close to faltering. Upon feeling the soft cool grass underneath his seat, he felt more steady. The thane had yet to dismiss him for all his clumsiness and ill spoken words—how odd. Erik leaned forward, his shoulders lax.

"Did you grow up here in the village?" Lanre asked him. Her gaze remained up in the stars.

Erik nodded. "Been here all my life, m'lady. My father owns the inn. I help him keep the place and farm as well. I've tended these fields since I was a young lad. B-but, I don't suppose you find all this terribly interesting, m'lady. You look like you've had your fair share of adventure—I envy you that."

Lanre tore her gaze away from the night sky. She sounded surprised as she looked at Erik. "You mean you've never set foot outside your village?"

"I've been as far as the eastern plains where you saw me this morning—" Stopping himself, Erik felt a sinking in his gut. His mind filled with the image of a wolf's eye, sharp and gold, brimming with mad hunger. Then his ears rang with the memory of a wet stab, a black arrowhead jutting through the wolf's skull. "My thane—what you did for me today ... if you hadn't come along when you did ..."

Erik felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Lanre was looking at him with solemn eyes.

When she spoke, her voice was hushed and low, loud enough that only their ears could hear.

"Think nothing of it. I need no thanks or gracious words, if that's the reason why you've sought me out this night. Your conversation has been ample repayment. It is all I truly need."

Erik felt her weight on his shoulder as Lanre stood.

"If you'll excuse me, I've been away for a little longer than I'd planned. My housecarl shall worry." She seemed to hesitate, standing still with her eyes still on him. "Pardon me, but ... I don't believe I know your name."

"Erik. Erik of Rorikstead, m'lady."

"Erik," Lanre tried his name on her tongue. "It has been my pleasure. Please, enjoy the night." With a final nod, she turned on her heel to walk back, her cloak leaving whispered rustles on the grass.

Erik scrambled to his feet. His heart was thumping blows against his ribs as he pushed his palms against the earth to force himself upright. Water seemed to slosh between his ears when he felt his fingers sinking into the hairs of Lanre's soft coat.

_Erik, you've gone mad. Do you want an arrow in your back?_

Lanre spun around. He glimpsed the alarm on her pale face before he felt earth beneath his knee. Bowing forward, he knelt, aware of his back rising and sinking with deep rapid breaths. Erik stared at Lanre's fine leather boots, dyed jet black, trimmed with soft silver fur. His words came pouring out in a rush of madness. That, and hope.

"My thane, I owe you my life. I'm nothing but a simple farmer—I have no riches, no fine possessions, nothing to my name except these meek fields before you. Nothing I could ever give would be enough to repay you for what you've done. Unless—"

Swallowing past a lump in his throat, Erik dared to raise his eyes. He met Lanre's wide, bewildered stare.

"My thane, I pledge my life and loyalty to you. I solemnly swear that I am yours until the end of my days."


	5. Chapter Four: Filok

Writer's Note: This chapter is incredibly long (8000+ words) and the future chapters are looking even longer. I hope you guys don't mind! I have so much to say about this particular update, so I have a _ton_ of notes at the end.

I would just like to extend a thank you to everyone who has been reading this story so far :) It means a lot to me, you guys.

* * *

_Hahnu Do Keizal_

By Toasted Panic

_Chapter Four_

_Filok_

_(Escape)_

The thane's tent shone like clear water in the light of dawn. As Erik marched uphill towards the tall beacon, each step felt leaden, every sound growing mute. Rorikstead was silent and sleepy-eyed with dying campfires and rousing soldiers. Those who were awake glanced curiously at him as he made his way uphill. He could feel their whispers. Erik wanted icy water to splash against his skin. This felt like nothing more than a dream with no joyful end.

_The thane told me we would speak more over breakfast. But why? Was my vow not enough? By the Nine—I never knew words could weigh so much._

He was standing in front of the tent. The guards on either side of the entrance gave him inspecting glances, their eyes small and inscrutable behind their shining helms. Was he to speak to them? Would they let him pass if he decided to walk through? Erik hadn't eaten, yet he felt as if he could cast up two whole meals if he dared to open his mouth.

A firm grip on his shoulder shook him from his reverie. Turning around, he saw the forest green of Willas's eyes.

"You planned on going by yourself?" he asked, his voice light.

Erik frowned. "I thought I was supposed to go alone."

Scoffing, Willas turned to stand by his side. "If your dear thane is as kindly as you said she was last night, then I don't suppose she'd mind an extra pair of eyes and ears. Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't muck this up even more."

Erik thought he should have felt more insulted. But Willas's words brought comfort instead.

"No," Erik muttered. "Lady Solveig wouldn't mind."

He approached the tent entrance with steadier legs as Willas keeping pace at his right. Erik tried to keep his voice firm when he said, "I'm here to speak with the thane." His words sounded unbearably quiet.

"Your name?"

"Erik. And my friend here is Willas."

"Her lady has business with only one of you."

Erik could feel Willas bristling beside him. Before he could argue with the guard, the thane's housecarl emerged from between the heavy silver drapes of the entrance. She glanced at Erik and Willas before addressing one of the guards.

"What's going on?"

"Our lady's guest has arrived, but he's brought company."

Erik felt the warrior's stare like the press of a knife's cold blunt edge against his skin. Up close, her steel armour looked heavy and impenetrable, making her seem taller although they were of a height. Her sword hilt looked dangerously close to her hand.

"Erik of Rorikstead, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Erik blurted out.

"I know what business you have with my lady. You, however," she turned her cool brown eyes to Willas, "I don't recall my lady asking for you. Your name?"

Willas's lips curled into a sneer.

"Willas."

Erik thought he saw a flash of recognition on the housecarl's face.

"And you're a friend to Erik?"

"Yes. I see no harm in friends accompanying friends to breakfast."

To Erik's surprise, the warrior nodded and drew aside the tent to let them through. "Very well. Both of you, step inside. Lady Solveig will be with you soon."

Hesitating for a moment, Erik moved cautiously, extending a low nod to the thane's warrior. He cast a backwards glance at her glistening armour. She didn't follow inside, letting the heavy white drapes flutter into place between them.

Erik felt his jaw drop. The thane's tent was more magnificent on the inside than it was from outside. The ground had been covered with soft embroidered rugs that muffled their footsteps. Carved wooden chairs with plush silk cushions in all colours were placed in front of the entrance, flanked by two roaring iron braziers. In the middle of the setting was a low table of dark wood and it seemed to sink underneath the weight of dense leather-bound tomes and silver plates of grapes, oranges, and roasted chestnuts.

It was warm, so blessedly warm. Erik allowed himself a shudder of delight.

"Isn't this what you call living, lads? You're smarter than I thought you were, Erik, to pledge yourself to all of this."

Erik and Willas whipped their heads to find Jormund sitting at a long table overwhelmed by plates upon plates of food at a section of the tent reserved for dining.

"Jormund?" Willas sputtered in alarm. "What in the Nine are you doing here? I swear, if you're caught trespassing in the _thane's_ _quarters_, they'll have you in chains—"

Jormund waved him off as he tore off a chunk of golden brown bread with a side of ham and cheese. "As it happens," he spoke through wads of food, "Erik here isn't the only one with thane business to attend to. I requested to have a word with her ladyship. But I'm surprised to see _you_ here, Willas."

Willas frowned quietly.

Erik approached the table setting, gawking at the food and wine. He sat down across from Jormund with Willas to his right. Even the seats had cushions softer than his bed of hay.

"Was this meant for three people or an entire village?" Willas scoffed, picking up a roll of bread from a plate of more than a dozen. "And who on Nirn has ham, duck, pheasant, and roast boar for breakfast? Most would be grateful for a scraggy chicken leg once a month."

"Now, now," Jormund chided through more mouthfuls. "Don't begrudge the wealthy their riches. Power has its boons every now and then. And you," he winked at Erik with twinkling brown eyes, "you, my lad, were smart enough to pick that out. Who knew you'd be so cunning?"

Erik felt his cheeks colour.

"I hadn't given a thought to her wealth ..." he muttered, staring down at an empty silver plate.

"Then _what_ in gods' names were you thinking?" Willas hissed angrily. "An oath like that is binding and _she_ knows it. You've yielded your life, and for what?"

Erik looked up at Willas with sad blue eyes.

"Freedom."

* * *

Lanre splashed iced water on her cheeks from a stone basin. Stilling her movements, she strained her ears to listen for voices. Her sleeping quarters were separated from the rest of the tent. It was sectioned off by heavy velvet curtains and a tall wooden partition with carved scenes of a spring festival underneath a full moon. From here, she could pick up very little of the outside. But it seemed as if her guests had arrived.

"Erik of Rorikstead," she muttered, looking into the ripples of her water basin. "What have you seen of this ugly world? How could you possibly know what your sworn oath means."

Turning towards the wooden partition, she whispered words as quiet as the heartbeat of a sparrow.

"_Laas Yah Nir._"

Past the partition and the heavy drapes, she could see three red auras glowing, seated at the dining table. One youthful presence shone brighter than the rest, a far purer red, gleaming and alive like hot blood.

Erik's aura was unique to her. It felt like a child's life force, pulsating with warmth as if filled with heat from a gentle fire. Yet it was brighter, more enticing, like gold and jewels to a dragon. She only knew auras to shine with such audacious light if they were untainted by greed and artifice. She saw the same strength and purity in Lydia's aura.

"She'd find that absurd," Lanre chuckled to herself. "If I compared her to someone as simple as him."

She shut her eyes and opened them once more. The red visions were gone.

Striding to her bed, Lanre picked up her wolf cloak. Draping it over her shoulders, she felt the welcome warmth through her blue silk dress. She cast one last glance at her reflection in the mirror. It was hard to ignore the weariness on her face as she made her way to greet her guests. Sleep had been elusive the night before.

Stepping through the velvet drapes, Lanre observed the three men at her table. Erik had his back to her, but his flame red hair was easy to remember. Another young man was seated to his right, the one who had long blond hair and brown skin. The middle aged man seated across from them was the first to notice her arrival.

He stood from his seat and beamed widely at her with a low bow. "How radiant you look this morning, my lady. 'Tis a pleasure to be joining you for breakfast. I assume your housecarl Lydia has told you that I, Jormund, would be dining with you as well as these young lads."

Erik and Willas followed his lead, both standing to extend stiff, wordless bows.

She smiled politely and made her way to the head of the table.

"Yes, she's told me. The pleasure is all mine, Jormund. Please, have a seat. My apologies for keeping you waiting. I'm afraid I'm not used to the early hours of the country just yet."

"By the looks of it, you'll have plenty of time to become accustomed," Jormund commented cheerfully as they all took their seats. "You've made quite the home for yourself here."

Lanre laughed softly as she poured herself a cup of spiced wine. "I'm afraid the greater luxuries of the world are not so easy to part with. I hope you find it to your liking. Please, eat whatever you wish."

The young blond man spoke up. "Thane Solveig, are we expecting more guests? A hundred oarsmen, perhaps?"

Lanre shook her head as she eyed him curiously. "I'm afraid not."

"Well, that's a shame then," he muttered into his cup. "It would be hard to finish off this feast between the three of us."

She hardly missed the disdain in his voice. Lanre's eyes flickered between Erik and the fair haired man as she addressed him, "I'm afraid we haven't been introduced."

"Willas," came the disgruntled reply. "Willas of Ivarstead."

"Willas of Ivarstead," Lanre nodded. "I honour my guests with the best of what I have to offer—the best of what Whiterun has to offer. Here, underneath my roof and protection, you will not want for anything. That," she smiled wolfishly, "and I have the belly of a dragon."

Jormund chuckled and Erik managed a hesitant laugh. Willas on the other hand stared at her intently over his wine cup, his green eyes sharp.

"Do you also have the avarice of one?"

There was a loud bang underneath the table. Lanre suspected that Jormund aimed a kick at Willas's shin. Unfortunately, it seemed as if he'd missed because Erik doubled over with a grunt of pain.

"Sorry, lad," Jormund grimaced. Turning to Lanre, he ventured a sheepish placating smile. "Pardon young Willas, my lady. I'm afraid manners aren't something I managed to teach him. One doesn't usually need to know the difference between dinner forks when all one has for company are fowl and deer."

Lanre ignored him, keeping eye contact with Willas. He held her gaze fearlessly, his jaw clenched tight. She could feel Erik's blue eyes on her, wide with nervous unease. She chose her words cautiously.

"I can't see how I've displeased you, Willas of Ivarstead," she said quietly. "Do you despise me for my wealth and titles? Or is greed a greater sin to you than envy?"

"How could I envy something as hideously ugly as your choice of garish pillows."

Lanre's stare turned sharp and cold. "Do you know what happens to those brazen enough to insult the highborn? I've known greater men to hang for lesser insults."

Erik's fists collided with the table.

The silver plates and cups clanged sharply against the wooden surface.

Lanre tore her gaze away from Willas. Her eyes met bright blue that reminded her of oceans half a world away. Erik's stare was fierce, transparent anger creasing his brow. She could almost feel the indignation rising off his skin in waves of heat.

"M'lady, I beg you," he said quietly. "Do not harm my friend."

Lanre leaned back in her seat, narrowing her eyes at him. This time, Erik failed to falter underneath her scrutiny. "I seem to recall that you've sworn your loyalty to me. And yet you vouch for him? After he cast aside my generosity like rotting meat? Are you so fickle, Erik?"

He stood his ground. "Not fickle, m'lady. Only a faithful friend. Willas speaks his mind. That hardly calls for punishment. He does everybody that courtesy, m'lady."

"Oh, but I am not everybody."

Lanre watched as Erik's face hardened.

"What if I were to call my guards in here to seize him? I assure you, if I do, they will follow my orders without question. If I were to command that they drag him onto the road by his feet, where everybody could see them take off his head—they would follow. And all would know not to doubt my authority."

Erik's voice was stalwart anger. "If you do such a thing, then consider my oath broken. I would not follow one like you with such blind cowardice."

Silence reigned amongst them with an iron fist. No one moved or spoke. Jormund was absolutely still and Willas's calm composure felt dreamlike and brittle. Lanre watched Erik, her countenance a foggy mask of contemplation.

When she roused to break the fragile hush, her words were soft, the steel behind her voice melting away.

"Oaths such as yours are not so easily forgotten," Lanre whispered. "You said so yourself. You owe me a debt greater than all other debts. You owe me your life. You owe me the air you breathe and the light you see. What price is the equivalent of that, except your true devotion? If you wish to revoke the most binding of all vows, then do so knowing this: you will forever be remembered as a man who broke his word. Erik of Rorikstead shall be Erik the False. Every oath you make hereafter will carry as much weight as leaves in the wind. You will never taste even a blind cripple's trust. The lowest thieves would sneer at you, for even they are known to have more honour. So what say you, Erik? Do you revoke your vow? Do you choose to be Erik the False, or Erik the Great? Look around you. Look at the wealth just beyond your fingertips. Gold and silver beyond your numbered days. This is what is promised to those who follow me, that and more. And Lanre Solveig is known to keep her word. I leave you to choose between a false life and one of greatness.

"I ask once more and never again: Do you revoke your vow?"

Erik's clear blue eyes remained steadfast. "If m'lady means to make me choose between the life of a friend and cold coin, my choice will be the same a thousand and one times over. I'd rather folks mistook me for Erik of Broken Oaths who stays faithful to those who call him friend. Begging your pardon, m'lady, but even someone as lowborn as me, not to mistake this for arrogance, knows that my eternal allegiance is worth more than all the gold and silver of the kings and queens that ever lived."

"Then I would be the greatest fool to ever live if I force such a choice."

Erik's eyes widened. Disbelief drained the colour from his cheeks.

Lanre stood from her seat, her smile bright and blinding. "Truer words have never been spoken. Few can boast of such. I believe you, Erik. Truly, your allegiance is worth more than all the gold and silver of any king or queen to sit a throne. A man who chooses his kin and comrades over worldly riches number among the greatest souls to walk our realm.

"In return for your vow, as a gesture of good faith, I swear to you before these witnesses: for as long as you choose to follow me, I will not forsake you. If there is anything your heart desires, ask it of me, and if it is in my power to give it shall be yours. Those you call kin and friend shall be under my protection. For as long as you remain in my service, you shall not want for anything.

"I swear to protect you for as long as you pledge me your loyalty, Erik of Rorkistead. And if I prove false, with the Nine as my witnesses, may I be stripped of all my wealth, my titles, and my life. If I prove false to you, may I be known as Lanre the Forsaken. I would make the same vow again in front of thousands, a thousand and one times over."

Facing Erik, Lanre bowed low, the tip of her nose almost touching the surface of the table. When she rose, she saw that Erik's countenance was that of a man who had sold his soul.

* * *

The silence between Erik and Willas was deafening. They were both seated on the grass behind Frostfruit Inn as Rorikstead bustled with activity once more. Yet the village seemed like worlds away.

Erik felt the dry grass between his calloused fingertips. His mind was a painful blank. A dull ache thrummed in his chest as he looked at the familiar plains sprawled out before him. Never did the light of midday break his heart as it did when he gazed at his home for what he thought would be the last time.

"I always dreamed of leaving," Erik whispered, his voice raspy. "I hated Rorikstead all these years. It felt like a prison and I wanted nothing more than to break free of it. I dreamed up all sorts of grand adventures—I'd be the most legendary adventurer to walk the land of Skyrim. That's what I told myself every day. And every day I came to hate my prison even more. I dreamed thousands of dreams of when I'd leave this place. Not once did I think it would be like this."

Hot tears slid down his cheeks.

"I feel so ashamed. Everyone was right, but I wouldn't listen." Erik's voice broke. "I _am_ a fool. I'm nothing but a stupid boy. I never think before I act. _Stupid_, _stupid, stupid_."

His shoulders heaved with wretched sobs. Erik buried his face between his knees, hugging his legs towards his chest. He wanted to shout at Willas to leave but he couldn't amidst his weeping. His skin was red and hot with shame as tears poured down his chin.

Erik felt strong arms wrap around him.

Willas murmured against his hair, "Now you know how treacherous and ugly the world can be. Once you're out there, make no mistake—this won't be the last of it."

Erik couldn't help but cry into Willas's shoulder, thankful that no other eyes could see him. Never before did he feel more weak and helpless.

* * *

At twilight, a crowd of soldiers and villagers were gathered silently to watch as Erik marched down a straight path at the centre of their gathering. A makeshift square had been fashioned in the middle of Rorikstead so that all could bear witness to his formal pledge of service. What seemed like a thousand paces away, he saw Lanre Solveig standing in the centre of it all. Her undecipherable gaze was what awaited him at the end of his march.

She wore her polished ebony armour and her familiar wolf cloak was draped about her shoulders. Clasped between her gloved hands was the hilt of an ebony sword, forming a line down the middle of her body, its tip resting on the ground.

As Erik drew closer, he could see familiar faces at the sides of his path. Ennis and Reldith were beaming with pride. Rorik and Jouane both gave him nods of approval. Lemkil's twin girls, Sissel and Britte reached out to him with rosy smiles, wildflowers of gold and red clutched between their fingers. Erik took their gifts and smiled down at them with murmured thanks, tucking the flowers gently into his breast pocket. At least for them, he would look brave.

He continued his march, almost at the end of his journey. He could see Willas and Jormund at the corner of his eye. Their faces were solemn, and Erik knew without looking at them directly. When the time came for him to finally pass his father, Erik feared to look Mralki in the eye. He knew his father wore a broken heart.

Erik swallowed past the lump in his throat and marched faster.

He would not yield to fear and sadness.

After a few rushed heartbeats, Erik finally stood face to face with Lanre Solveig. Her housecarl Lydia stood to her right, holding a small wooden box.

He found himself wondering whether the thane was the gentle woman he'd spoken to at the night of Lokir's funeral or the cunning noble who opened his eyes at dawn that day.

_I don't suppose it matters_, Erik thought bitterly as he stared into her amber eyes unflinchingly. _Whether it happens to be one or the other, I am forever bound to both until my dying day._

"Erik of Rorikstead," Lanre called out in a booming voice so that all would hear. "On this day, on the thirtieth of Frostfall, year two-hundred and first of the fourth era, what do you wish to pledge in the sight of the Nine and all who are gathered witness here?"

Raising his voice, Erik announced the solemn words he had proclaimed the night before: "I wish to pledge my life and loyalty to you, my thane. Accept this as my humble repayment for having saved my life. I solemnly swear that I am yours until the end of my days."

Lanre nodded, her gold eyes impenetrable. "Then kneel."

Erik bowed low over the earth, kneeling as he did underneath the stars the first time he swore himself to Lanre.

He saw her raise her black sword, its tip vanishing from view.

"Do you pledge fealty to me in the sight of the Nine and those who bear witness, that I may have your unbroken faith from this day until the end of your days, or for as long as I wish to keep you in my service?"

"I do swear."

"Do you pledge to forsake all others, keeping your service to me second only to your service of the Nine?"

"I do swear."

"And should you break the faith, Erik of Rorikstead?"

Erik kept his eyes downcast as he uttered the most binding words of all: "Death before dishonour."

"_Death before dishonour_," the gathered crowd repeated back to him.

Lanre recited her part. "Before the Nine and all who gathered here—from this day forth, I hold you by these words, Erik of Rorikstead. In return, I, Lanre Solveig, pledge to keep your fealty in good faith. May all who call you kin and comrade be under my protection for as long as you remain my true and loyal servant. I do swear. If I prove false, may I be stripped of my lands, my titles, and my riches. Death before dishonour."

The cold dark metal of Lanre's sword gently touched his left shoulder then his right.

"Rise, Erik of Rorikstead," Lanre commanded. "From this day forward, you are mine."

Erik stood on his feet to the sound of roaring applause and cheers.

As the final part of the ceremony, Lanre clasped Erik's shoulders with both hands. Leaning in, she kissed his left cheek, then the right. Erik returned the gesture.

As the cheering died down, Lanre motioned for Lydia to come forward.

"As a token of welcome," she announced warmly, keeping her eyes on Erik, "I present you with a small gift."

Lydia opened the wooden box in her hands, holding it out for Erik to see.

Erik looked down at the velvet cushion inside that held a circular gold amulet glittering with small rubies.

Lanre gently removed it from its box. "An enchanted amulet, so that my protection may be with you for as long as you wear it."

Erik bowed forward as Lanre slipped it around his neck.

"Thank you. M'lady is generous."

Lanre smiled wanly at him as the crowd erupted into deafening applause once more.

To his own surprise, Erik found himself whispering to her, "Why do you look sad, m'lady?"

The noise of the crowd almost swallowed Lanre's quiet words.

"I believed that this is what you wanted. And yet you look so broken."

* * *

Lanre could hear the merriment of Rorikstead from her sleeping quarters. Her tent was dim, lit only by the kindling from the braziers. She sat upright in her bed, draped in furs, troubled by lack of sleep. Rubbing at her tired eyes, Lanre felt a heaviness weighing on her slumped shoulders. She wished that Lydia was there.

"I hope you don't mind that I didn't use your front door."

Lanre glanced to the side of her tent. She saw Willas crawling in from underneath the tarp canvas.

She scowled, pulling her furs closer to her as a cold breeze fluttered in.

"This couldn't wait until everybody was asleep or drunk?" Lanre reprimanded as she watched Willas dust himself off. "I trust that no one saw you?"

He snorted, green eyes shining in the dark. "I was born in the Rift. It's in my blood to sneak past drunken soldiers and their lot."

Lanre narrowed her eyes at him. She kept in mind that she never had a dagger far from reach.

"I assume you want your payment for a job well done," she asked, her voice flat and humourless.

Willas surprised her by sneering angrily as he crossed his arms over his chest. "When you asked for me before first light today and requested for my assistance, I had no inkling that you would pull a farce like that. If I'd known you'd be so cruel, I'd have told you to shove your gold up your noble priss backside and walked away. You mongrel bitch."

He looked ready to spit fire.

Lanre looked up at him wearily. She wished for the thousandth time that she had never met Erik of Rorikstead.

"You would ask me to turn a blind eye to a binding oath?" Her voice was hoarse from all the talking and political niceties of the day. "Even that isn't within my power to withhold, Willas. You know that as well as any sane person. Besides, most of what I said this morning was no lie. Mummery only works so well when it's sprinkled with the dust of truth."

"Then _dismiss_ him, for gods' sakes," Willas hissed, frantic and exasperated. "Make up some wild story! Akatosh knows you political types excel at that. Something about Erik bedding all the stable boys and a half dozen of your women soldiers—all in a _row_. Or that he shat on Talos's shrine. Something. Anything. Whatever can be grounds for dismissal."

Lanre glared. "You think I would dishonour a sacred vow? Even I wouldn't stoop so low. You know the oath goes both ways. I swore my loyalty to him as well. _Death before dishonour_. Those are the words."

Willas let out a string of muttered curses. He paced the room like a caged sabre cat.

Lanre found it difficult to muster sympathy.

"Is that regret you're feeling?" she asked lightly. "Unlike you, I have betrayed no friendships. Erik is a follower to me now, and before today, he was nothing more than just another common lad. But you, however. You care about him. And judging by his bold and heartfelt words this morning," Lanre's smile was cold and cunning, "Erik is rather fond of you. It would be a grave shame if he found out that you agreed to test the strength of his loyalties in exchange for a few shiny coins."

Willas looked like he was about to lunge at her.

Her eyes flickered over his body. He had no weapons that she could see. Lanre held steady as she watched him fume.

"You didn't have to go so far," he spat furiously. "I told you—Erik's a _simpleton_. All he wanted was to escape his village life and see the world. He would have believed anything! You hardly had to break his _spirit_."

"If I broke his spirit," Lanre muttered in a low voice, "then I could have refuted his vow under the grounds of his own weakness. But the state of affairs being as they are, Erik proved exceptionally worthy. And I take none but the most trustworthy and loyal as my closest followers."

Lanre grimaced, turning her gaze to a brazier and its dying flames. "In time, I hope he'll come to disdain me less. It gave me no pleasure—the way I tested him. But I needed to see if his heart was true. Erik happened to be right, more right than he could possibly know. People in my position know complete and utter loyalty for what it is: priceless beyond all measure. Anyone as close to a crown as I am would rather have loyalty like Erik's over the Emperor's seat."

Willas frowned at her. "Just who in the Void are you, to make a statement so bold as that?"

Lanre stood from her bed, wrapping her furs around her. She ignored Willas's question as she rummaged through drawers in her desk.

"What say we have a deal," Lanre sounded as if she were pondering aloud. "We can forget about this business, if you agree to my brand new bargain. And this time, your rewards would rival my own wealth. That is, if you succeed. And judging from all that you've told me, I think you will indeed be very successful."

Willas was silent for a few moments as Lanre continued to search for whatever she needed. When he finally spoke, she had yet to turn around.

"I'm assuming that when you say 'deal,'" he muttered dryly, "that doesn't mean I actually have a choice in the matter?"

"Oh, you have choices. Two, in fact. One of them just happens to lead to a burned bridge."

Willas grunted, "That sounds terribly familiar. I'm assuming my second choice is agreeing to more of your ploys. And where on Nirn does that choice lead?"

Lanre turned around with a wolfish smile. In her hand, she held a small ornate box made of solid gold.

"Most of what I said this morning was true," Lanre whispered. "Those who follow me will never want for anything."

She opened the box, revealing a floating perfectly cut pink gem. It lit the tent with a pale, eerie glow.

"I will give you the Thieves Guild of Riften," Lanre spoke softly. "See to it that you work your way to the top. I need you to become Guild Master. Word has it that they're in need of ... new management. The way I see it, you have a golden opportunity for your skills."

She closed the box, cutting off the light, and threw it to him. Willas caught it, his face contorted with disbelief.

"You are stark raving mad," he laughed weakly. "Me? Guild Master? What makes you think I can pull that off?"

Lanre scoffed and took a seat at her desk chair. "Leave the mummery to the political types. You and Jormund don't fool me. Don't think I didn't notice my missing silver. Your hands would have been hacked off at the wrists if I hadn't found a use for you."

Judging by his fidgeting with the gold box, Willas felt visibly unnerved. "Would your guards actually kill or maim a man at your command? Without question? How underhanded."

"They would," Lanre said coldly. "But I've always preferred to swing the sword myself. The burden of the execution must lie with those who pass the sentence."

"How truly like a Nord of you," Willas muttered disdainfully. "Fine. Very well. What would you have me do, oh Thane of Whiterun? If that's what you really are."

Lanre pointed to the gold box in his hand. "That unusual gem I gave you is your ticket into the guild. If you've thought of selling it off for papers to High Rock, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's worth less than the shirt off your back. No one in Skyrim would pay half a copper piece for it. The only thing you can do is go to Riften and ask for Maul. Once you find him, tell him that you need the gem appraised. Show it to no one else but him. From there, the rest is up to you."

Willas's brows raised incredulously. "Of course, this all sounds so terribly easy. Let's say I manage to do all of that, and then become the Guild Master. What then?"

"You would spy for me," Lanre stated bluntly. "You will be my eyes and ears in Riften, the sharpest and most keen when you become Guild Master. No one else in the other holds would touch that rats' nest with a yard long pole. Not even the Thalmor are willing to dip their manicured hands into that sewer water. If I have you at Riften's pulsing heart, I have a monopoly on priceless information that would send Maven Black-Briar into drunken titters."

"That's it?" Willas's eyes were wide with disbelief. "All that trouble for whispers and gossip?"

Lanre's eyes were hard and brittle as frost. "Wars aren't won by the sword alone. If you wish to emerge on the victor's side of Skyrim's civil conflict, then I advise you to join me."

"Talos have mercy," Willas hissed. "Who are you?"

"Do you consent?"

"Wait—all you need is the information I can provide?"

"Yes, that is all you have to give me. You can keep whatever riches you manage to hoard in the sewers."

Willas frowned suspiciously. "And if I stray, how would you know?"

"I have spies for my spies. And Sithis knows that there is always a poisoned arrow nocked in the shadows, waiting for the hearts of those who would think to betray me."

That name alone was enough to drain the bravado from him. Willas turned pale as he watched her, uncomfortable underneath Lanre's scrutiny.

"Do we have a deal?" she asked coldly.

"I don't suppose I have a choice. Yes, we have a deal," Willas grumbled as he pocketed the gem. "We must both think highly of Erik's loyalty if we'd go through these lengths to keep him."

Lanre smiled softly. "That's one thing we share, you and I. The covetous sort know a true prize when they see it glimmer."

Willas nodded absently as he strode to the edge of the tent.

"I'm assuming I won't be seeing the last of you?" he asked, dropping to one knee, picking up the edge of the tarp.

"In a fortnight, meet me at the Bannered Mare at the top suite. Make sure no one knows you've set foot in Whiterun—I'm sure you're more than capable of that."

Willas nodded, rolling his eyes. He hesitated once more before leaving, turning to Lanre to ask her one more question.

"I guess it goes without saying that I should never mention any of this to anyone, but now I wonder—what business did Jormund have with you this morning? He seemed surprised to see me here."

Lanre shrugged as she went back to bed. "It concerned a message to Jarl Balgruuf. That's all you need to know. And don't worry—both you and Jormund are under my protection so long as we all keep the faith."

* * *

The inn was warm and silent. Beyond its walls, Erik could hear the soldiers and the villagers making merry. Someone was playing the flute—perhaps Jouane. Erik remembered when the Breton would sit in front of the mansion during hot summer days. He would play an uplifting melody while Erik, Ennis, Reldith, and Lemkil tilled the soil. All those years ago, Erik would have closed his eyes and imagined he was hearing bird song in a wild and misty forest.

He couldn't bear to do the same thing now.

Seated in front of the inn's roaring fire, his blue eyes were wide open. His ears rang with how the people toasted him today, applauding his honour, his bravery, his faith. How they admired him, and even now in the late hours of the night the village was still awake singing his praises. Rorik had given him a short coat made of elk, Reldith gifted him with a jar of sweet frost berry jam, and Ennis, in a drunken stupor, offered him Gleda, his prized goat (which Erik politely declined). All their farewell tokens lay at the bottom of his pack, sitting on his meagre bed of straw.

Tonight would be his last in Rorikstead.

"I've dreamed of this," Erik whispered, "All these years, I've longed to see the world. And if I asked it of Lady Solveig, she would let me train at the sword, fit me for decent steel, and she'd even let me have a small armoury of my own if she saw me work hard enough for it. She's promised me more wealth than I can imagine, if I do my duties right. But why do I feel so unhappy?"

The stinging behind his eyes came back and he refused to let it slip by him.

"If I knew how much those words meant, I never would have said them. I've thrown my life away, and for what? I'll never see my family again."

Bitterly, he held up Lanre's amulet against the firelight. The gold glimmered like the sun, its rubies sparkling laughter like the stars. Erik had never owned anything more valuable in his life. The gold chain by itself could have bought his father two more inns.

The thought of his father threatened to spill more tears.

"Erik?"

Mralki stood by the entrance to the inn. In the dim light, Erik could hardly make out his expression, but the sadness in his father's voice was all he needed to hear.

Erik rubbed at his eyes, feigning weariness.

"Father, I didn't notice you come in. I must be more weary that I thought."

Mralki walked slowly to where Erik was seated. Without a word, he took another chair to sit quietly by his son. Erik watched, letting his sadness show for once since he'd cried on Willas. They sat in silence side by side, letting the crackling of the fire fill the inn.

When he broke the silence, Erik felt as if his words weighed no more than the sparks that flew and faded in the air.

"I'm sorry," Erik whispered. His eyes felt hot and watery. "What I did was rash—so rash and foolish."

Erik felt his father's gaze on him.

"I understand she saved your life."

The fiery burn of shame coloured Erik's cheeks.

"That was no deer's blood on my clothes yesterday," Erik whispered. He leaned over, placing his head in his hands, his eyes squeezed tight. "A wolf pack attacked while Willas, Jormund, and I were out hunting. One of the beasts had me on my back ... it would have ripped my throat open had Lady Solveig not shot it with an arrow." Erik let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders heaving. "I lied to you, father. I'm sorry ... for everything. I've been a shameful son."

His voice hung raw and trembling in the air. Erik despised speaking more and more that day. It was as if each sound he made was leaden, each word another promise he could never turn his back on.

"Then it seems I owe the thane much more than food for winter."

Erik glanced up at Mralki. His father's brown eyes were solemn, but his jaw was set firm.

"It seems I owe Lady Solveig the life of my only son," Mralki whispered. He reached over and let his wrinkled fingers graze Erik's flame red hair, a touch that neither of them had known since Erik was a tiny lad. Erik felt the stiffness in his shoulders wash away.

Mralki continued to speak quietly. "We live in hard times. Harder than you might know. Skyrim is ... troubled. Deeply so. We've gotten by, and things in Rorikstead are much better than anywhere else, but I'm afraid I haven't done my best for you."

"That's not true," Erik argued, his voice breaking. "I've been selfish—I see that now. You've been good to me, father. You truly have."

Mralki shook his head, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. "Oh, but I've made you so unhappy, lad. All I meant was to protect you, not keep you here like a caged bird."

Erik felt himself choking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I knew what those words meant—if I knew what I'd be giving away, I wouldn't have said them, father. I wouldn't have sworn the oath."

"Don't say such things, lad," Mralki chided gently. "What you did was honourable. A true and just act. Few men would have done what you did. Even fewer would have sworn the same oath for a good and moral purpose. Such words like ones you said today have been said by others out of greed and envy. But no such evil lies in your heart."

Mralki beamed at Erik, more tears pouring from his gentle brown eyes.

"I've done well to raise a truly noble son. You will bring your ancestors glory, Erik. They will smile on you for all you've done and all you will accomplish. I could ask for nothing more."

Reaching into his tunic pocket, Mralki withdrew a small steel locket with a single pale sapphire in the middle, small as a grain of wheat. He handed it to Erik with a sad smile.

"This belonged to your mother," he said softly. His brown eyes crinkled fondly at the corners. "It would have made her so happy to know that you had eyes and hair like hers. That's where you got your handsomeness, you know. Aye, lad ... your mother was a beauty. She would have been so proud of you."

Erik held the locket in his palm. Opening it, he glimpsed a lock of red hair, brighter even than his own. He closed his fingers gently around the warm steel, feeling comfort for the first time that day.

"I swear I'll come back one day, father. Before then, men and women from all over the land will know my name and you'll have heard a grand tale or two about me. I promise you that."

* * *

The sun had yet to rise when Lanre was finally ready for the ride back to Whiterun. She was dressed in her armour and cloak, with her sword strapped at her hip. Most of her belongings had been packed and placed on waggons. All that remained in her tent was a table in front of the entrance. She and Lydia stood over it, pouring over a painted leather map of Skyrim.

They were discussing the route back to Whiterun, reviewing their stops and resupply points when one of the guards entered the tent.

She placed her right fist over her left breast and announced, "One of the villagers wishes to speak to you, my lady."

Lanre straightened. "At this hour? Who?"

"He said he's Erik's father. Mralki."

Lanre felt a sinking in her gut. She hadn't slept a wink and had no patience for any further demands. There were far more pressing matters on her mind like the journey back to Whiterun. She had half a mind to send the old man away, yet the image of Erik's sorrowful face gave her cause to think twice.

She extended her guard a weary nod.

"Very well. Send him in. But no one else. He's the last person I'll receive today."

The guard bowed and took her leave.

Lydia rolled up the map as Mralki entered the tent. Lanre observed him quietly from behind her desk. His visage was gentle and though he stood tall with broad shoulders, he held himself with humility. He extended a bow to her, rising to meet Lanre's eyes quietly.

"I hope I'm not intruding, my lady," he said.

Lanre shook her head. "It's no trouble. But I'm afraid I can't speak for very long. I need to see to our preparations. I assume you've been told that we leave at midday?"

"My son has told me, yes."

"I see," Lanre said softly. "What has brought you here today, Mralki?"

The old man's brown eyes held her gaze with bravery as he spoke. "I'm but a simple inn keeper, my lady, and before that I was a soldier. What I mean to say by this is that I've seen enough of the world to know how unwise it is to make demands of highborn folk."

Lanre smiled. "And are you about to do something wise or unwise?"

"Unwise as a man," Mralki uttered softly. "But any father would do the same."

She felt her gaze softening. "Then say what you wish, Mralki. Underneath my roof, no harm will come to you. Speak your mind."

Mralki bowed again as he continued, "All I ask is that you keep my son safe. Erik will be true to you, of that you should have no doubt. No other man or woman in all of Tamriel would ever be as loyal. I ask as a loving father that you keep him from wars and strife ... keep him safe and in good health."

Lanre watched as he rose again. The sadness in Mralki's eyes was tangible, fear as well, a fear that Lanre knew all too well.

"I will not give you empty promises," she said solemnly. "I have sworn to be true to your son. With all my power, I shall protect him and his loved ones. But I'm a mortal, not a god. Power only does so much." Lanre watched as Mralki's face crumpled. "I will keep him safe, believe me. I swore in front of you and many witnesses. I will do what I can."

She made her way around the desk to stand in front of him. Placing a firm hand on Mralki's shoulder, Lanre explained, "You love your son and only wish the best for him. Which is why I see no harm in telling you this: once we set foot in Whiterun, I will entrust Erik's training to the Companions. Kodlak Whitemane is their leader, a strong and noble man who is wise beyond his years. He and I will see to it that Erik has a welcome place among them.

"Within a year's time, your son will number among the best warriors of this era. No foe will dare to strike him."

Mralki's brown eyes came alive with hope, eyes that would come to haunt her.

"Gods be praised," he whispered loud enough for her to hear. "My son couldn't have pledged himself to a more noble woman."

* * *

By midday, the sun had risen high and bright.

Erik observed their entourage assembled on the village road: five of Lanre's most trusted guard, three more to drive their luggage waggons, and him and Lydia. Erik had been given a spirited chestnut courser to ride. He was positioned in the middle of their formation, just in front of the waggons, while the thane and her housecarl rode at the head. Scouts had already been sent to their first resupply point.

Though he hardly got a wink of sleep, Erik felt wide awake.

He'd said his goodbyes at breakfast. All he had to bring was a small roughspun sack of clothes. He wore the coat that Rorik gave him. It was warm and comfortable, perfect for the journey ahead. Inside his tunic, hanging from his neck was the thane's talisman, along with his mother's locket. Their warmth against his skin gave him courage.

A horn sounded, signalling them to mount their steeds.

Erik swung himself up onto the saddle, grasping the leather reigns firmly in his hands. He looked around, watching the crowd of faces that were there to see them off. All the village people were beaming proudly. Erik found his father in the huddle. He extended a wave, giving Mralki a fearless smile. His father smiled back, his face gleaming with pride.

When the second blast was sounded, they began to ride.

Erik didn't look back as he left Rorikstead for the first time.

* * *

Writer's Notes: This was absolutely bittersweet and difficult to write. I've included these following notes because I want to clear up any misinterpretations that may have resulted from this chapter. I have very important intentions that I want to convey properly.

Feel free to skip this if you feel satisfied with the chapter!

I wanted to accomplish a number of things with _Filok_, the most important of which is this: I wanted to give meaning to Erik's vow and also his eventual departure from home (which the game doesn't do). Because he made a mistake, he comes to learn in the span of a day that words carry weight and that he shouldn't give his trust freely just because a person seems kind and honourable. This opens the floodgates for character development. Learning from his mistake provides Erik an opportunity to step away from his childish views, allowing him to reassess the world anew as he leaves his home.

One of my secondary goals was to emphasize how the Nord's value and view honour. The most important part of Erik's pledge of loyalty was that if Lanre had accepted it, she knew full well that she would be making a similar commitment to him. So in order to accept or reject his vow, it was extremely important for Lanre to see if Erik made his promise with honourable intentions. Her wealth is a symbol of power and how it can attract the wrong kinds of people (i.e., Willas). Anyone in her position would find a very easy death if they trusted wrongly. So upon seeing Erik's honest and pure nature, she is compelled to accept his vow and extend a similar pledge of loyalty to him.

If you missed it, there are hints that the breakfast scene was staged (aside from it being purposefully dramatic): Lydia lets Willas into Lanre's tent despite knowing he wasn't given an explicit invitation, which, if not a calculated move, would have simply been irresponsible. Not only that, but she _leaves_ the men alone with Lanre. Judging from knowledge of the game dynamics alone, you know that Lydia is supposed to protect her charge with her life. It can be inferred that Lanre requested Lydia to leave, because had she been present when Willas started insulting the thane, it would have been Lydia's responsibility to remove him from the premises (given that he would be seen as a threat). It would have seemed incredibly strange if Willas started insulting the thane and Lydia stood there doing nothing.

A more subtle hint is that Lanre doesn't seem at all surprised that Willas is there. Erik already mentions that he's supposed to come alone.

The most obvious hint is Willas's blatant and fearless disrespect, and at Lanre's table no less (which in a society that values honour would be considered boorish and downright stupid). Being thane in a more realistic world carries weight with it (unlike in the game), and the other common folk are seen in this story to respect Lanre, albeit some are begrudging about it. And that's because insulting people with power to their faces (at least in a world like Skyrim) often results with heads on spikes. Willas knows this. He's far from stupid. In fact, he can be very clever. He would never have insulted a thane as he did in that scene if he didn't have _absolute_ assurance that no harm would come to him.

The fact that Jormund and Willas have shady pasts is something a little less obvious. The only hint I can discern at this point is also in the breakfast scene: when Willas sees Jormund there, he immediately assumes that the old fellow is trespassing. He didn't say, "Oh, you were invited for breakfast, too?" which would have been the reaction of more law-abiding folks. No, Willas jumps to the conclusion that Jormund is doing something he's not supposed to.

My last note for this chapter is this: I don't feel strongly compelled to have all my protagonists be sterling beacons of morality. Not all people are as honest and true as Erik, and that's okay. I enjoy writing characters with grey-area moralities. They seem truer to life and are vital to compelling storytelling, right alongside characters who happen to be more black-and-white. So it was not my intention to make either Willas or Lanre seem like villains. I simply wanted to make them more complex, driven by motivations that are entirely their own. Willas was driven by need for money. Lanre is driven by caution. Seeing that they will both be playing vital roles, there is of course room for character development.

Other than that, I hope I've written justly. Now the ball is truly rolling. See you next time :)


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